The Irony Of It All
by e-dog
Summary: You are the reluctant romantic, stuck between two loves: one fully fledged, the other pure mania. So what will you do about it? You haven’t the faintest clue. [Spoilers for Built to Kill GSR, CS]
1. You answer

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: As with lots of my stories, I actually wrote this as a one shot. Then I kept going. And going. We'll see if that was a good thing or not, won't we?

Some kind of warning will apply as Built to Kill Part One introduced the idea of rape or sexual assault on a main character. So there is your warning. Nothing graphic. I promise. This story will most likely revolve around the events of Built to Kill 1 & 2. Any other episodes afterward may or may not factor.

Other incidental warnings: 1) This is written in the second person, but it's not one of those "You Choose The Adventure!!!" kind of stories. I would never subject you to such pain and unnecessariness. I also realize this isn't the most popular person to write in, but I'm finding myself comfortable writing in it.

2) Femslash. 'Nuff said.

3) The main character may frustrate you. Trust, I've been frustrated with her character as well, lately. I apologize ahead of time.

Warnings done. I hope you continue to read. Enjoy.

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Summary: You are the reluctant romantic, stuck between two loves: one fully fledged, the other pure mania. So what will you do about it? You haven't the faintest clue. Spoilers for Built to Kill; GSR, C/S

**The Irony of It All**

by e-dog

**Part One: You answer.**

You're not too sure anymore.

Maybe, you did. Well, of course you did. You must have. Just like any other kid who dreamed and wished and hoped. Yes, many years ago, you pictured a future that had you in a completely different place than the one you currently find yourself in. Isn't that truly the story of any human being walking this earth? What one dreams doesn't necessarily become reality?

Oh, how true that is! You can remember it so well, too. That future was a lot less murky. It was infinitely happy and chaos free. You went out drinking and dancing. Most importantly, you _had_ friends to go out drinking and dancing with. Your job had a desk, an ergonomic office chair and several family portraits. It had everything, but those faces. . .. The faces in those family portraits were never clear. Never.

There was this one time you. . .oh what does it matter what _you_ thought?

Well, it matters a lot, actually. It matters to you.

There was this one time you thought that maybe. . .. Maybe you had found _yourself_ inside the seemingly happy photographs. You were sandwiched between someone you might have known and another person who felt familiar, but you couldn't be sure. Needless to say, you were happy. You were so very happy in that photograph.

Alas, that happiness was purely fictitious. Wishful thinking. A childhood dream.

So here you are, _dreaming _about a future that never came to fruition. You don't have a desk or an ergonomic office chair. There are no family photos. You go out. Occasionally. Mostly with the people you work with. Okay, make that _rarely_. You haven't spoken to Greg outside of work in weeks, now that you're thinking about it.

You are living proof that whimsical, childlike dreams never come true. That seemingly happy, chaos free future was conjured up by a very innocent little girl many, many, _many_ years ago. Years before meeting the great Gil Grissom. Years before stumbling unto that job at the coroners office. A job that ultimately led you here to Las Vegas. Back to him.

Well, to be honest, you're a bit fuzzy on the details as to how you found yourself to be in Vegas. You're almost certain that the coroners job had some part in it. Still, how did you find yourself staying beyond the Holly Gribbs case? What made you take on work as a full time CSI?

Was it to investigate Warrick? To appease Grissom? Maybe.

Your life has always been like that.

Fuzzy. Unclear. It would be impossible to pinpoint the exact moment, the exact person or the exact monolithic event that finally led you to stay permanently. You just know that you are here and that you are here to stay.

-------------------------

You slip out at first light. He doesn't like you leaving by yourself without saying a word, but this is a rare chance to watch the sunrise from the suburban perspective. Normally, you're leaving the lab at 8 in the morning, the sun already high in the sky and the beauty already lost to you. If it is one thing you miss most these days, it's the simple pleasures. Your night shift job constantly robs you of such delights.

So, one could imagine how nice it was to have a fairly open and shut case; a chance to go home early. Wow, you going home early. What a thought.

You still wince thinking back on it, however. Your condolences were much too late once discovering the bereaved was actually the victim's partner in life. To have accused him of the crime. . .well, it wasn't something you could've known. You shouldn't blame yourself, but a piece of you still does. He didn't deserve to be treated that way. No one in his position would ever deserve that.

Aside from that bump at the end, it was nice to reflect. Bask by an open fire, drink tea and discuss anything and everything with your significant other. Unfortunately, these topics always include death. It's something he still likes to do. Talk about work at home. Gil can't seem to separate the two.

He was sleeping soundly when you left him. He probably didn't even feel the kiss you pecked on his cheek and that nearly infuriates you. It's silly to be upset by such a thing (almost selfish), but after being ignored by him for so long, you want every gesture, every touch, every kiss to be noticed. You won't accept sleep as an excuse for inattentiveness. More like you _can't_ accept that. He's supposed to notice everything all the time. He does owe you at least that much, doesn't he?

It shouldn't upset you. He gives you his all when he can. A great observer at night, his eyes seem to be closed off and lacking during the day. His ears only picking up what they want to hear. His lips only saying what's safe.

His shining romanticism really bright when he remembers your favorite foods or flowers or star constellations. This memory is really acute at work, his mind already in overdrive thanks to your overbearing caseload. Maybe that's why he has to talk about work so much. He's not sure how to continue your relationship at home.

Home. It's funny to call his house "home". It's not _your_ home. Not yet, anyways. Honestly, you're not really sure if it ever will be your home.

It's not that you didn't think of the consequences. You knew the risks. So did he. It's only after the act was done did the risks really become scary. The risks became real. With these increasingly dangerous risks hovering over you all the time, you're afraid the two of you will never have a home to call your own. Not unless one of you decides to suddenly up and move out of the Las Vegas Crime unit. Funnily, you can't see you or Gil giving up your positions that easily. Not even for love.

You blink. Where are you? You have been driving around for who knows how long, losing track of your future. So, what was it you wanted again? Oh, that's right. You wanted to see the sunrise.

Your vehicle cruises down the lane toward one of your favorite spots in Vegas. Well, it's just outside Vegas to be more precise. A community park with a nice little manufactured river flowing under a cute little bridge, with equally cute wooden benches and fancy street lights. Even though this place is completely store-bought and fake, this particular bridge offers the best view of the sun. That beautiful yellow-orange orb rises over the peak of the horizon at the most perfect of spots and you can watch it from that fake little bridge over that fake little river.

The little lot is empty as you pull in. The walk to the bridge just as scarce. The communities nearby are all sound asleep, missing out on the glory of the sunrise. You lean on the rail, your pale reflection trying very hard to stare back up at you from the turbine frothy water. It seems this place is the metaphor of your life. Beautiful on the outside, machine powered underneath.

You scowl at the thought and proceed to watch the sun. It is nearly at its pinnacle height. Unfortunately, you have missed most of the glorious occasion on the drive over here. Well, maybe another day you can sit here and watch the whole thing. Maybe another day, you won't be here to watch it alone.

It's time for a walk. Time to enjoy the solitude while it is still within your grasp.

Wait. No it isn't. Your cell phone buzzes the arrival of a text message. It's Sophia. Another dead body.

You stare back out at the sun, now perched high above you and you sigh deeply.

Well, that didn't last long.

-------------------------

A miniature crime scene next to the actual crime scene. Every detail exactly the same. Interesting.

It never ceases to amaze you how utterly creative the criminals in Vegas can be. After working here for nearly 7 years now, one would think you had seen it all. It seems you have only scratched the surface of the criminal mind.

"I think Malibu Barbie did it," you remark. It's pretty much the same old routine between the two of you. Process the scene, make light jokes, assess the situation with metaphors and similes. Grissom throws in his share of corny one liners and you would be lying if you said they didn't put a smile on your face most days. Today, you manage to hold your amusement to a smirk.

He also manages to hold off any questions on your disappearing act. He really doesn't like you leaving without saying a word. He has said this to you once before. One time he practically ordered that you stick around for an entire day at least once. Wait for him to wake up so he could see your face first thing, he told you. Well, if it's one thing he should know by now, you don't like being ordered around. You'll come and go when you damn well please. This isn't a marriage.

As you snap a few pictures here and there, you ignore the curious look in his eyes. You sigh inaudibly, scolding yourself for your own bitterness. It's not his fault you're so insecure. Hell, it's hard enough trying to explain to him your reasons for wanting to leave because frankly, you're still having trouble sorting that part out yourself. You love him. He loves you. What is driving you out of his home every day? It's not like your apartment is some great castle littered with bear rugs and fine wine cabinets begging you to come home.

Well, maybe not cabinets, but there is wine.

You feel your cell phone buzzing against your belt where it is clipped. As pathetic as this sounds, two calls in the span of an hour is quite remarkable. You're lucky to have two calls in a week let alone one hour. You take the call outside, noticing the ID is unknown. You answer.

"Sidle."

"Sara?"

You frown. The voice sounds oddly familiar, but there is something different about it. A moment later, you realize you haven't answered and the caller releases a sigh to let you know it. You snap out of your daze, "Yes, this is Sara. I'm sorry, you are?"

There is a slight pause before the voice lets out an exasperated laugh, "It's Catherine."

Right. Of course. You flinch slightly, feeling horrible for not recognizing her voice immediately. While you and Catherine have been on a smooth road as of late, neither of you felt it necessary to exchange numbers. Come to think it, you're not quite sure how Catherine got your number in the first place. You make a mental note to ask her later.

"Cath, right. I knew that. It's just late...early. . .however you wanna look at it. What's up?"

"I need you to stop by a motel." Another pause. "I just need your help."

Hold the phone! Catherine needs _your_ help? That's a bit weird.

Whoa. Wait. A _motel_? You almost missed that little detail. Catherine is at a motel and she wants your help. She's either A) in trouble, B) having car trouble and needs a ride or C) asking you to join her for a quick rendevous to do the horizontal tango before the next shift.

It's definitely not option C. You look around, as if you are being watched by tall, dark CIA agents, then ask discreetly, "Cath, is everything alright?"

"I'm fine. Just. . .Sara, I could use your help, okay?" Catherine sounds edgy. She sounds pissed. She sounds worn out and confused. Usually, you can equate those first three emotions to the fiery blond on any given day, but that last one...not so much. Confusion is not something that happens to Catherine very often.

"Sure, sure, where are you?" you say, complying quickly.

It's not too often Catherine Willows specifically asks for your help and hell, it would be nice to have someone owe you a favor for a change. You scribble down the name of the motel and the road and promise to get there as soon as you find a replacement. You hang up, still somewhat bewildered that she called _you_. Than again, Catherine asking anyone for help is a monumental occasion. Your next call is to Greg.

About 20 minutes later, Greg Sanders arrives and manages to make it through all the crazed fans of the late rocker. He stares at you incredulously, "I can't believe you're leaving the crime scene of Izzy Delancey!"

You can only smile. Why are you the only one who never knows anything about anyone? Were you really that much of a hermit? Well, maybe you still are. Hell, Grissom knows more about the lifestyles of the rich and famous than you do. Did you not nonchalantly reply to Grissom's explanation of the famous rocker's hit song with, "I'll download it"?

Greg is still looking at you like you have two heads and it's time to get going. Ignoring his utter disbelief, you explain what hasn't been processed and where to start. He takes these instructions in stride. As you walk away, you add over you shoulder, "There's just something I have do. Thanks."

You race to your Tahoe and check the time. You suddenly feel like you're on some important mission. Only you can accomplish whatever task Catherine gives to you and suddenly that makes you feel wanted. You rather enjoy that feeling immensely and eagerly start the ignition.

Catherine has been waiting long enough, so you will have to break a few speeding laws to make up for any lost time. You're not sure what has your co-worker sounding so desperate, but you're sure time is of the essence.

-------------------------

"I called _you_."

The taxi leaves and you stand there for a moment. Everything had happened so fast, you're not sure if it even happened at all. Words are processing ever so slowly in your brain.

Dancing. Rufy. Slang for Rohypnol. Rape.

The word processing is over. Time to work.

You work the room, just as Catherine requested, and find nothing. You go over the room again and again and again. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. This guy had hurt Cath in a way that was unforgivable. There had to be something left. More sweeps of the room, the bed sheets, the toilet and the shower.

You cut the UV light, finally facing the truth. Whatever he did, it was good. There are absolutely no traces of a rape or sexual assault in this room. No used condoms. No semen streaks.

You lean against the wall as the reality of the situation finally hits you. Catherine Willows may or may not have been raped and that same woman had called you first. Catherine called you. The question was, why? Why you? Why not Warrick or Grissom?

Well, maybe the last person she wanted to talk to was a man. Maybe she knew you wouldn't go all puppy eyed and stare at her with syrupy sympathy and pouted lips. She knew you would get down to business and she knew you wouldn't scold her too much for not allowing the crime lab to process the evidence. You suddenly realize that Catherine knows you better than you think and that scares you because you barely know her at all.

You shut your kit and gather up the other physical evidence and your camera. There is little left here in the room to process. You doubt any of it will lead to Catherine's abductor.

On your way out to the parking lot, you swear aloud. Your anger surprises you, but feels justifiably good. You bang a hand against the car and swear again. Catherine just had to process herself, didn't she? Damn it! She had to break the rules and ruin any chance of catching the bastard.

You're very angry now. So angry, you regret not yelling at Catherine earlier. You regret being so passive. You regret a lot of things when it comes to her.

You search your pockets for your phone determined to scold Catherine for being so stupid. You find the phone and your finger hovers over the call button, but you don't make the call. You know that you _can't_ make the call. You're not mad at her. You're mad at yourself. You're mad that you couldn't find more evidence in that room and that is a sign of inferiority. You have failed her.

You load all of your belongings into the back of the Tahoe. You begin the drive back to the lab and dream of another sunrise.

-------------------------

Grissom had kept you busy. At times, you wondered if this was his attempt at sheltering you. Maybe he assumed a volatile Catherine wasn't something you could handle very well. Maybe he was right. There's nothing in your past that would indicate otherwise. Your confrontations with Catherine have never gone in your favor.

Whatever his reasons, the miniature crime scene case has held nearly all of your attention. By the time you had heard of the car accident and Lindsey Willows' kidnapping, the young girl had been found and the perp seriously wounded. What upsets you more is being told much, much later that all samples collected by Catherine turned up negative for spermicide. She wasn't raped. While you're relieved by the results, you're disappointed those results had been held back from you for so long.

You have a feeling that was Grissom's doing as well.

You leave him at the lab, haunting that model with pained eyes. As you drive away, you rub your lips nervously, worrying for him. Worrying _about_ him and his fascination with the model crime scene. He said he would handle it. He said he would take care of it himself, but that means late hours at the office. That means his attentiveness toward you (or anyone else for that matter) will be next to nil for the next few weeks and that you will have to ride out his latest wave of obsessiveness until it is over.

Up ahead, you notice the traffic has slowed to a crawl. Something has happened, but from your view, you can't tell what it is yet. Police cars, ambulances and other emergency vehicles surround one of the casinos.

Oh, wait just a minute. It's a _Sam Braun _casino. You shake your head in annoyance. That man can't seem to stay out of trouble, not even for Catherine's sake. You finally are forced to come to a complete halt as curious onlookers have stopped to get a good look. Or possibly snap a few photos with their camera phones.

You can admit, you are a bit curious yourself and search the crowd for any familiar faces. You see some people from the local news station that you recognize. That one man looks to be Detective Vartann, but you can't be sure. You think that maybe you'll spot Sam Braun talking to the press or claiming his innocence to whatever debauchery has taken place here.

You're surprised to find someone else, standing alone and away from all the chaos. Someone who doesn't deserve any more grief or pain today.

Tears have left stream marks down her face. Oh no. No, no, no. What's happened? Blood is dripping from her hands. Where did the blood come from? Is she hurt? Why her? Why now?

You haphazardly maneuver around the traffic and park your car on the side of the road. Leaving the engine running, you hop out and run up to the shaken CSI. Breathless, you say, "Catherine? Catherine, what happened? Are you okay?"

"Sara?" Catherine says bleakly, turning around and staring at you with profound incredulity. "What are you doing here?"

Good question. What _are_ you doing here? How did you get here? How was it you ended up staying in Vegas permanently? Maybe the answer to that question isn't as hard as you think it is. Maybe you do know what has you standing right here, right now. Maybe you know exactly why you haven't driven away, pretending you saw nothing.

"I was driving. . .," you finally reply, but you can't get much more out. The look on Catherine's face is just heartbreaking. You're unsure of what to do. This isn't exactly your forte. Catherine is the people person. Catherine is the comforter. You are not any of those things. You don't know what to do.

"He's gone," Catherine mumbles, looking away. "He's gone."

You want to ask who is gone, but the answer is just ahead of you on a stretcher. A tarp is being pulled over the head, but not before you see who it is. You once thought that man was invincible. Maybe Catherine thought so too. You whisper something. You're not too sure what it is you just said, but you hope it was something along the lines of "I'm sorry."

Sam Braun is dead. Catherine's biological father is dead and suddenly she looks so very lonely. Lonely and lost. Instinctively, you reach an arm out, tentatively wrap that arm around Catherine's shoulders and coax gently, "C'mere."

To your surprise, Catherine accepts the embrace for what it is. A symbol of condolence. A gesture of friendship. Her head rests in the crook of your neck before the floodgates pour open. Both of your arms wrap around her at this point, holding her as tightly as possible. Her blood soaked fingers dig into your back as she clutches you with all the strength she has left.

You're enjoying this contact way too much, considering the circumstances. Even so, you enjoy it just the same and you hate the fact that you can only hold her like this during moments of calamity.

As you listen to the cries of an embittered and grief stricken woman, your eyes catch sight of first light.

The sun is beginning to rise.

-------------------------

The sun desperately wants to peek through the clouds.

You feel cold and you bet Catherine does as well. You wish to be at that park. You wish to be on that bridge standing over the turbine frothy water. You want Catherine to be there with you. You want a chance to erase what happened here, but this isn't about your wants or wishes anymore. You have to focus on what she needs. She needs to know that she's not alone.

So you stay with her until it's over. The detective you had mistaken for Vartann questions Catherine, but is courteous enough to be direct and succinct. He can see she is in pain. You can see it too. For all the evil Sam had brought into her life, he was still her father. In the last few years, he had tried to be that father even when Catherine didn't want him to be. It was only natural to mourn him.

As an EMT cleans the blood off Catherine's hands, you can only think of yourself and your father. There was blood on you, you remember. Cast off from the wall. You walked past it, accidently brushing your arm up against the dark liquid that once flowed through your father's veins. As a child, the red pattern on the wall simply translated as splattered paint. It didn't symbolize death or anything like that. He was just bleeding and that wasn't too far from normal. There had always been blood in your house.

Blood wasn't normal in Catherine's home, you realize. It wasn't normal in any home but your own. You're certain she is doing everything she can to keep from puking. You learned to stomach the idea long ago.

The EMTs are done and the detectives busy throwing out their theories on why Sam's killer shot him in public. Catherine is heading back toward you and she is looking at the ground as she walks. You have to hold up your hands to physically stop her before she bumps into you.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," you smile softly.

"No, I mean, sorry about your shirt," she corrects you, waving her hand absently. She's gesturing toward your mid-section.

You glance down and see hand prints. Her bloody hand prints. You had pulled her in for that hug and her tainted hands clung onto you like a life preserver. You look back up at her and repeat sincerely, "It's okay. Really."

She half laughs, "It's blood, Sara. It's not going to come out."

"I'm really not worried about the blood or my shirt," you tell her, resisting the urge to cup her face in your hands. Resisting the urge to touch her period. "I'm worried about you."

She turns her head away, her gaze landing on the spot where she cradled Sam in her lap. You think she might cry again.

"Want me to drive you home?" you ask.

"I drove here." Her voice is monotone. You can see she is in no condition to drive back by herself. You begin to wonder if she will even go straight home. She might stop by a bar or a liquor store on the way. Something to take the edge off.

Well, no. She probably wouldn't do that at all. That's more like something _you_ would do. Or something you would've done in the past. You're not an alcoholic, but it's not uncommon to occasionally find yourself taking a vacation at the Jack Daniels ranch, listening to the drum machine pounding in your head.

Crap. Catherine is walking away from you now. You can't let her leave. Not without you.

"Cath, wait a minute. Let me drive you back," you insist. Your voice isn't very forceful, but it probably should be. Trying to get Catherine to do something she doesn't want to is like trying to convince a disobedient four year old that they can no longer play outside after dark. It's the danger they are completely oblivious to. In a way, her stubbornness has a certain innocent quality. An endearing, irritating, innocent quality.

"Sara, I'll be okay," Catherine says, her tone full of warning. She hasn't stopped walking and she's getting away. She wants you to back off. You know that you should, but for some reason, your brain doesn't compute. You race to catch up, jump in front of her and block her path. Her eyes are full of flames and tears. "Sara, leave me alone."

"No, I'm driving you home," you say defiantly. She wants to play the Who Can Be More Stubborn game? Hey, it's on.

Catherine sucks her teeth in disbelief, shaking her head, "Look, I appreciate what you did back there, but I'm fine now."

You feel like pulling your hair out. Resisting the urge to twitch, you still keep her from leaving on her own (which only infuriates her more) and shake your head no. "I know this is tough, but this is no time to be all high and mighty. . ."

"Stop! Just stop!" she spits at you, her eyes welling up with tears again. "Sam is dead, yes, but he. . .he wasn't my father. I never wanted him to be. . .Just stop pretending you care, Sara. I will be fine."

Ouch. That one hurt. You do care. You care so much, it aches deep within a place you can't reach. She could never know how much you actually care because she would never believe it. You breathe in deeply, keeping your own hurt feelings at bay. It's time to play dirty.

With a soft, assuaging voice, you say, "You called me, remember?"

This quiets her. Her silence is so abrupt, you almost forget what you wanted to say. You elaborate nervously, "I mean, you called me about. . .before. I know not for this, but you trusted me before. Trust me now. Let me drive you home."

Something in your plea breaks her. She averts her eyes away from yours and says, "I'm sorry, about what I said."

"It's okay," you say.

"My car is in the garage," she says. She motions toward some building off to your left. It's not an outright yes, but you take it as one.

You put a hand on the small of her back and lead her to your vehicle. You really have no reason other than your own desire to touch her there. Still, she doesn't seem to mind the contact. In fact, it draws her closer to you. You help her up and into the passenger side. She mumbles a "thank you".

You climb into the driver's side, check the gas and battery life (considering you left the engine running for the last twenty minutes) then maneuver your way back into traffic. The flow is speeding up now that Sam's body is gone. The craziness is over. The spectacle has ended.

It feels good to be moving again. The lights of Vegas are a great distraction for both of you.

-------------------------

You are surprised to see some professional cook yelling Bam! at you while you sift through grapefruit in the produce section. When did they install these televisions? You were just in here last week and they weren't here. Well, you think they weren't here. You have a penchant for being oblivious.

Monstrous flat screens hang from the ceiling, begging to be watched. They tell you how to make 30-minute meals and how to set your dining room table. Use our Club Cards to qualify for a make-over of your entire kitchen!, it bellows. You can only shake your head. Grocery shopping is already a hassle. Adding television is just outright hazardous to ones mental health.

"You're distracted," Grissom says, coming up behind you. He has found a loaf of Italian bread and a box of pasta. Tonight he is cooking dinner for you.

"It's the tv," you say, pointing.

"No, I mean, you're distracted," he repeats, putting emphasis on the last word. He must be referring to work. At the lab, he caught you staring at the same crime scene photos for more than thirty minutes even after all evidence obtained from them was exhausted. You don't know if he's chastising you or just making an observation, but you respond with cattiness anyway.

"So are you."

That miniature model is all he ever thinks about anymore. It's been a week since the death of Izzy and he still obsesses over it. He takes about 45 minutes each day to study it. To poke at it and prod. This outing is the first thing you two have done together since then. You miss him. You don't know if he misses you with the same fervor.

"I know why I'm distracted," he replies gently.

He wants to know why you're troubled, but you don't want to say it aloud. The truth is, you feel guilty. While he's been pining over an old case, you've been pining over Catherine. It's wrong of you to be angry with him. He's been languishing over an object. You've been admiring another person.

You hate to think of Catherine as a victim, but she is just that. She _is_ a victim and that's where the hours and hours of pining stem from. You can't stop thinking about how she could've been raped. You can't stop thinking about her mental health. You can't stop thinking about _her_ in general and you're not sure how to rectify this. You know she's a strong woman. She will bounce back from this, true to form. You know she's strong.

"Nothing to worry about," you say to him, but you are mostly trying to convince yourself. No, you shouldn't worry about her.

Oh, but there is plenty to think about. Sam Braun's funeral is today. A huge part of you wants to be there with her, but it's not really your place or your family. Still, Catherine means something to you. She needs someone strong to lean on and while you may not be the incomparable candidate for Best Friend, you are more than an acquaintance to her. You are her friend, on some level. After what happened last week, you feel there is a trust between the two of you that wasn't there before. You must be friends. Sort of friends.

"Have you heard from Catherine?" you ask. You can't help but bring her up in conversation.

"She called. She'll be back in a few days. I told her to take as much time as needed," Grissom says.

"Good. That's good. She'll need it." You smile and remark, "She won't admit that she needs it, but she will."

Grissom chuckles lightly, "I won't argue with you on that. She is stubborn."

That she is. It's something that's undeniable. It's something that's always intrigued you. You're still smiling and maybe Grissom sees you, but for some reason, you don't care.

-------------------------

You don't really remember when you fell in love with her.

It could've been that first day. That initial interaction wasn't so pleasant. Oh goodness no, that wasn't fun at all. She was cold and bitter and angry. Not angry with you, you don't think. Angry that you were there to take the place of Holly. A young woman that Catherine was fond of.

Well, you like to think she wasn't angry with you. She might have been.

Later on during that case, however, you witnessed her ingenuity. Her cleverness. Her use of the phrase 'bling bling' was quite amusing, of course, but her improvisation got the job done and that's what impressed you the most. From that point on, you knew she was special. It may have taken a few more years to realize just what 'special' really meant to you, but you knew she was special nonetheless.

No one at work knows you play for both teams. Or, you used to. . .strike that. You still do. After college, the "experimenting" was over. You had a string of disastrous relationships with male partners who all became carbon copies of one another. The only one that hasn't become an utter disappointment is Grissom. You do love Grissom, you always have. Even when he claimed not to have loved you back, you loved him. So, how does Catherine factor into all this if you're seemingly happy with what you've got?

Long ago, you decided that Catherine wasn't the one. She was just a crush. Your crush on her migrated into an annual thing; something that came up during your "off seasons". That being when you are utterly alone and single, the thought of you and her is suddenly plausible. (A little whiskey usually helps this notion.)

You still don't know if she even likes women in that way but you haven't stopped dreaming about it. You haven't really stopped hoping.

Anyway, reality usually sinks in sometime after your latest alcohol binge has worn off. The crush is over. Just like that, you're back to pining over Grissom and the ones that got away. Oh, you are a fickle one, aren't you?

Catherine is not a possibility. It's not because she's a supervisor. You've already broken that rule with great ease. It's because. . .she just isn't. She's not a possibility.

It probably doesn't help that coverage of Sam's funeral is _everywhere_. You can't deny the news coverage is well deserved. He was quite the public figure and in his heyday, a man to be feared. His power really meant something back in the old days. He was untouchable. Unfortunately for him, that power couldn't protect him in a world that had lost the ways of Old Vegas.

Catherine's face has popped up a few times. She's not being interviewed or anything, but word got around fast she was Sam's daughter. Also, from a cameraman's point of view, she has a face made for film. Even in mourning, she's stunning. The press wasn't allowed inside the church for the ceremony, so they've got about 30 seconds of footage of her walking to her car. Thirty seconds is quite enough for you, thanks.

You turn off the television. Watching her image on the small screen has only made your pining worsen. You gulp some more wine. Grissom is at the lab. You are home alone.

You're not an alcoholic. This is your first drop of liquor in several months. You haven't even had a drink socially with Greg, Nick or anyone in that time. Even though it's been so long since your last drink, the liquid is smooth as it travels down your throat. It warms you up from deep inside and it's the warmest you have felt in weeks. It wouldn't hurt to fill up the glass one more time. You can sip it until your head feels heavy. This will lull you to sleep, you hope.

You pour another and another. You hope and drink and try to drift away, but sleep is not coming.

Grissom hasn't called yet. He usually does.

To be continued. . .


	2. You should have stayed home

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: See Part One; also wanted to add spoilers at some point for Leaving Las Vegas.

**The Irony of It All**

by e-dog

**Part Two: You should've stayed home.**

No more liquor. Ever. You know you've said this to yourself before, but damn it, you've had it with your own stupidity! It's not worth the agony or discomfort. Or the hangovers. Or the puking. Or the self-reproach. It's not worth losing someone you love.

So no more drinks. No more alcohol. No more getting caught up in silly fantasies of unattainable entities. You have a good thing going with Grissom (even if it is a big secret to everyone else). You have something you have wanted for a very long time. You won't let anything ruin that.

You know that she's strong. You are not an alcoholic.

You make your way to the locker room, managing to avoid Greg and/or Nick along the way. They would be the first to recognize the signs of a hangover and you don't need them teasing you right now. What you need is stability. You need Grissom to leave that damn model alone and hold you. You don't want the teasing.

"Rough night?" you hear her ask.

You probably don't need _her_ teasing you about your hangover either. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone. _She_ shouldn't be here.

"Catherine? What are you doing here?"

You bravely turn to face her, trying to stand tall and fake some manner of control over your heavy limbs. She is putting her purse in her locker, obviously planning on working tonight. She should be home with Lindsey.

"I couldn't stay there. Not with my mother," she says, offering you a small smile. You had wished for a typical catty answer. That smile coupled with her outright honesty will be your undoing someday. Her voice is light and airy, almost relieved as she speaks, "Lindsey is doing okay, considering what happened. She misses Sam, but they were never close. I wouldn't allow them to ever be too close."

"Still, you don't think it's too soon to be back?" you ask.

"It's been a week since his murder," she reasons. Then forces a laugh, "After Lindsey was kidnapped, I hoped he would die for what he let happen to her. I could've cared less about me, but he let that happen to my little girl." You watch Catherine shut the locker and begin to leave. She leans in the doorway for a second than finishes, "Be careful what you wish for, right?"

"Yeah," you say, as she disappears from your sight. You fall down to the bench, exhausted. Your shift has barely begun and you are already tired.

------------------

You think that maybe Grissom is testing you. Pairing you up with Catherine is not a coincidence. He must be testing you. You also think that you are very, very paranoid. You are (without a doubt) a paranoid, obsessive compulsive mess right now. Take a deep breath. Let's reason this out.

Grissom would never know of your on again/off again lust for Catherine. No one knows it but you. He can't test you on your loyalty or trustworthiness if you've given him nothing to be suspicious about. Besides, it's not like you've cheated on him or anything. You're just having thoughts. Thoughts are not tangible things that you can hold or mold into anything. They are just thoughts rolling around in your head. As far as you know, mind-reading is not a common practice amongst your friends. You are safe.

Thoughts. That's innocent enough.

For being so innocent, you can't believe how guilty you feel. It's not just the Catherine thing either.

You think that maybe Jim has been staring at you. You don't know for sure because you've avoided all eye contact with him. He's always been in your peripheral vision, however. It's like he's stalking you. A list of questions in hand ready to interrogate you over your alcohol consumption in the last few months. You swear yesterday was the only day you lost control. _It won't happen again, Jim_, is what you want to say. _It won't happen again_.

You've been avoiding Catherine as well. She's taken notice of your quietness, but hasn't said a word. You feel that maybe she wants to say something. She would like to know what's wrong with you, but there has been a barrier between the two of you that keeps her from asking. That barrier went up after the Ecklie incident. Asking too many questions, pushing for too many answers would be just the right ingredients for disaster. You both learned to just give the other space. You both learned to keep your personal matters to yourself.

Except Catherine broke that unspoken rule last week. She invited you into her troubles. She asked you to keep her probable rape case under the radar. For the life of you, you still don't understand why she asked you! Why you?!?

Well, no wonder! This is why you've been so out of sorts! It's not the murky future or the alcohol consumption or Sam's death. You don't know why _she_ called _you_. You have to know why _she_ trusted _you_. Once you know, you can move on. Brilliant deduction, Sidle! Brilliant!

"Why?" you say aloud. You're shocked to hear your own voice. Catherine is too.

"Why what?" she says, her concentration on the photo she is snapping. Her back is to you.

"Why did you call me that morning?"

She stops moving. Her lips move to talk, but nothing comes out. Her shoulders sag some, a sigh escapes from deep within her. Catherine shakes her head as if she doesn't know and throws out, "You're a woman."

"Bullshit," you say softly. "Warrick or Nick could've. . ."

"Nick left me there," she cuts you off, her voice rising some in anger. "I didn't want to burden him with the guilt of leaving me. Warrick is my best friend, yes, but our relationship is already awkward enough. . ."

Nick left Catherine at the club? Why didn't you know this? You're going to kill him!

And what's this awkwardness between Catherine and Warrick? Why do you feel this sudden need to turn into a cranky, green little monster?

Catherine is still talking and you tune back in, your thoughts of murdering Nick and Warrick set aside for now. She cranks her head around to face you and finishes, "Anyone else at the lab would've treated me like some fragile piece of china and I didn't want that, Sara. I didn't want. . ."

"_That_. I get it. I'm sorry I asked," you interrupt. She was right about you. She knew you wouldn't dwell too much on her decision to do her own rape kit. She knew you would be too shocked to react with any kind of proper reasoning. Given your relationship, she also knew you wouldn't feel the need to hug her and share a good cry. She knew all about you.

You start packing up, all blood samples collected. You hastily pull together your kit and evidence, needing to get out of here and into some fresh air. Air that doesn't smell like death. Or like a crime. Or like Catherine. You need some air.

"Sara," Catherine calls you. Her voice is soft. Apologetic.

Now it's your turn to stop moving. You want to look up at her, but you don't. You stay crouched to the floor, staring at the evidence laying before you. Where are you again? What crime are you working?

"Sara," she says again, pauses, than moves across the room to kneel down next to you. She places a hand on your shoulder and says, "Sara, I called you because I needed you. Not Warrick or Nick or anyone else. I needed your help."

"Right," you nod, still not looking at her. You find that the only way you can deal with this situation is to be catty. You don't want to be, but whenever Catherine throws you an emotional curve ball like this, your first reaction is to fight her on it. She doesn't really care this much. She has never cared this much in the past. Bitterly, you say, "You needed me because of the lack of emotional ties between us. You needed me because you knew I would be a CSI first. . ."

"And a good friend later," Catherine smiles at you. You only see this smile because you have finally turned to face her. She makes you both rise to your feet, an awkwardness settling between the two of you.

This awkward moment reminds you all over again why you love her. You purse your lips, feeling an airiness bubbling in your chest and repeat somewhat giddily, "A good friend?"

Catherine hugs you quickly in response, pulls back and says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you manage to squeak out. You might have even smiled at her, but you don't know for sure. It's moments like these you realize you're never too sure about anything. Suddenly, she has gathered up her things and gone out to the Tahoe. You're still standing there wishing she had been more difficult. You had hoped she would find offense in your prying. You had hoped some kind of quarrel would have set you both further apart.

You wish she had given you a reason to forget her.

----------------------

He is suddenly Prince Charming again. He remembers everything you have ever said to him. He doesn't forget to call you on those nights you two are apart. He's listening with both ears and looking at you with both eyes. You wonder why he can't be like this all the time.

You're lying face down on his bed, listening to him rummage around in the bathroom. You hear rattling and assume he's in the medicine cabinet. You are still drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming of what's yet to come. The future still feels murky, but life has settled down in the last week. This is also the first real night of rest you've had in a long time, you realize. With everything that has happened to Catherine, you haven't had much opportunity to just sleep without worry. You worry about her a lot.

He startles you by putting his hands are on your back, but something is different about them. They are cold and a bit tacky. You jump a little and he chuckles.

"Icy-Hot," he says simply.

You quirk an eyebrow.

"For your back," he explains. Ah, yes. Your back. The sole reason that you are actually trying to sleep here at his house and not at the lab pulling another long shift. You had strained it or pulled it or maybe even shattered it while working under a car yesterday. You don't know what you did exactly, you just know that it hurts like the dickens. The Icy-Hot is helping, but you wish he would just come back to bed and hold you some more. However, if you know Grissom, he's taken his shower and he's up for good. He's not coming back to bed.

His impromptu massage is over just as soon as it began.

"Thanks," you murmur into the pillows and shut your eyes.

"Take the night off. For me," he requests softly.

"Not a chance, Gris. This is nothing," you say, eyes still closed. You wiggle a bit trying to alleviate some of the tension along your lower back. "I'll be okay by tonight."

"Sara. ..," he says, but stops himself short. He knows not to argue with you about work and he doesn't. He says he's going to the store and he'll be back to make you something to eat before shift. You don't tell him that'll you'll probably be gone by then. You need to get back to your place. Most of your things are still there anyway and a fresh change of clothes will be in order.

For now, though, you stay. You might as well rest up and heal up. Nothing is keeping you from going in to work tonight. You can't even remember the last time you called out sick and you would like to keep it that way.

----------------------

You should've stayed home. Rather, you should've stayed at _his_ place. Naturally, Grissom's angry because he came home to find you already gone, a little note tacked to his fridge signed with a cutesy heart and your name. That little sentiment did nothing to ease his ire. He is sort of giving you the silent treatment, which is funny in itself, because you barely exchange words at work anyway. However, as much as a Grumpy Grissom is not good for you, you have more pressing issues to contend with.

Your lower back is killing you. You've made it to the middle of the shift, but you don't know if you'll make it to the end. The work is manageable, yes, but you're in severe pain and you have no good place to stretch out and breathe. The bench in the locker room is definitely not an option.

You've just swallowed some pills, but those will take at least 20 minutes to kick in. Twenty minutes is most definitely too long to wait!

You shuffle down the hall attempting to walk normally, but so far all you can manage is your best impression of an old lady chasing down a turtle. It's funny that Catherine is the only one who is ever equated to being stubborn. You can be stubborn in your own right and well, the pain shooting up your spine proves that. You should've stayed home, just like Grissom had asked you to. Why is it that you never listen to him anyway?

"Oh, that looks painful, Sidle," you here Catherine say as she comes up along side you.

It's hard to tell if she is being sympathetic or typically baiting. Your interaction with her has been strange, to say the least. Over the last week, she's been uncannily sweet with you. Or, dare you say, _nice_ to you. Considering your history, you do understand that the last year of your relationship has been quite the model of good companionship. Still, this new level of niceness is unsettling. It's different from before. She's not just being nice to save face. She's being genuinely nice with true spirit behind it.

"Do you need some aspirin?" she asks, concern very evident in her tone.

"I'm fine," you say, stopping to look at her. "I've already swallowed a boatload of pills anyway. You got something?"

"Yeah, but we can talk about it in my office," she smiles, than turns the corner indicating you should follow.

Yes, you are working another case with Catherine and yes, you do think Grissom has set you up again out of spite. Paranoid, much? Yeah, you think so, but you're getting used to the idea.

It's taking you a bit longer to get to her office, despite best efforts. Once there, you see her rolling her office chair over to the doorway. You raise an eyebrow confused as she instructs, "Sit."

"Sit?" you repeat dumbly.

Catherine's smile clearly reflects her amusement now as she insists, "Sit. As in, sit down in this chair. That's what chairs are for, you know. Sitting."

"Smartass," you mutter playfully. You practically fall into the chair and she has to steady it so that you don't fall over. She then instructs you to lift your feet up off the floor and once you do, she pushes you over to her desk. You realize she has transformed her desk chair into your wheelchair. How clever. . .and nice.

She leaves you at the desk and takes a seat in one of the other chairs across from you. She asks, "Better?"

You shift in the chair, getting quite comfortable and grin, "Yeah. This chair is great."

She laughs, "That's Ecklie for you. Talks about the budget like it's some sacred entity, than spends money on buying us all ergonomic office chairs. _Leather_, ergonomic office chairs."

Ergonomic? You take in Catherine's desk from what is usually her perspective and feel like fainting. Your heart thumps faster as flashes of images play out before you. The future you dreamed of as a little girl has finally come to fruition. The desk, the ergonomic chair, the family portraits. It's all the same. It's everything you had hoped your future would amount to and now it's all right here in front of you.

Okay, okay. So it's not exactly _your_ desk and this is not _your_ chair, but this is quite possibly the closest you will ever get. You also realize the photos staring back at you are of Catherine's family and not your own. Well, that's okay. The photographs had never been easy to see; they had never been clear. These will do just fine.

You look up grinning and see Catherine staring at you, clearly puzzled. Your grin fades quickly. You begin to blush.

"Ecklie. Office chairs," you blurt out. "Figures."

Catherine is about to ask you something, but thank your lucky stars, Wendy pops in the doorway and interrupts her. "Grissom is calling a meeting in the breakroom. He wants to check up on your progress."

"Okay," Catherine says. You go to get up, but she waves at you to remain sitting. She skips up behind you and pulls you away from the desk again. "Feet up, Sara."

You laugh lightly. Lifting your feet up to keep them from dredging the floor, she pushes you out of the office. Wendy has a bemused look on her face as she watches Catherine drive you down the hall to the breakroom. She jokes, "Hey, Cat? Do I get a free ride?"

Over my dead body, Simms, you think to yourself. Over my dead body.

Nick and Warrick are trying to keep from laughing as Catherine glides you up to the table.

"You regret coming into work now, don't ya?" Nick teases. He then mutters to Warrick, "I told Mandy she would come into work. She owes me some money!"

Warrick laughs and is primed to jump in next, "C'mon, leave the girl be. She's just trying to get that Perfect Attendance Award that she wins _every_ year."

Greg strides in next, "Aw, I think it's cute!"

You roll your eyes. You're used to these jokes by now and you're willing to let them slide, but to your surprise, Catherine does not. She sits down next to you, massages your shoulder and shoots back at them, "You're just jealous because I'm not babying you guys tonight."

"Since when do you baby me?" Greg asks incredulously. He demands playfully, "I want to be babied!"

Greg's words go in one ear and out the other. Catherine is massaging your shoulder. Her delicate fingers have begun a soothing motion sending you into an absolute tizzy. Her touch is so intoxicating, you almost don't hear Warrick's reply.

"Oh, is that right?" he laughs lightly, than turns to Nick and mutters. "We're jealous, she says."

They should be jealous, you think evilly to yourself. No wonder Nick and Warrick are always vying for her attention! Looking for any opportunity that involves a playful slap on the arm or a lingering touch.

"Hey, I _am_ jealous!" Greg jokes, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are already clouding over in what you assume is another fantasy about you. Or Catherine. Or any other female that haunts this lab on a regular basis.

Nick is still shaking his head in mock disbelief. Warrick is trying to remain neutral. Greg is outwardly daydreaming.

You can see both Nick and Warrick are pretending that Catherine is wrong in her observation, but sadly, everyone here knows that she is absolutely right. The boys love it when Catherine gives them any kind of attention whatsoever and now she seems to be all yours tonight. You can't help but grin at them mockingly (to which you swear Nick glares back). Ha. Tonight, Catherine is all yours.

Grissom steps in and you quickly remember that Catherine is not allowed to be yours. How did you forget that so easily? You glance up to catch his gaze locked on Catherine, her hand still massaging your shoulder gently. She's oblivious to his silent scrutiny, but you begin to squirm. That only makes the situation worse, as Catherine notices your sudden discomfort. She tightens her hold on you, "Sara? You need a pillow or something?"

Grissom takes a seat, but still keeps his eyes on you and Catherine.

"I'm fine," you say quickly, wincing as you lean forward and away, forcing her to let you go.

"Seriously, Sara," Nick says, his eyes reflecting his apology for teasing you. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm good, really," you insist, than turn to Grissom so he can start this meeting already. "Will this take long?"

"No, just wanted to get a quick review on everyone's status," Grissom says, now focusing his stare on Warrick. You inhale deeply and exhale slowly, listening to the profound timbre of Warrick's voice relay the facts of his case, the what-ifs, and any possible leads. You doze in and out of the meeting trying to forget the wonders of this chair that you now sit in. You try to forget the amazing feeling of her hand massaging your shoulder.

Thankfully, Catherine does most of the talking when Grissom asks about your case. You're not really capable of speaking at the moment; those damn, intangible, sinful thoughts troubling you again. In fact, you can't even sit in this chair anymore. It was this chair that made you remember that other fantasy in the first place. That perfect future that clearly places you with someone that isn't Grissom. Well, shit. The morning had started off so well too.

When the meeting is over, you hop up out of the chair and walk out. Well, you are still shuffling, but you manage to keep up a clipped pace to ensure your urgency and to keep people from asking any questions.

Everyone is staring at you. You don't care. You're a scientist and you have to test something.

----------------------

His desk is different. No photos.

His office is darker too.

His chair doesn't help to alleviate any of the stress in your back like her chair does. Catherine's chair. Her office. Her desk. His desk is not like hers. Well, no, of course not. They are two completely different people. You already knew this and yet at the same time, you didn't know this. You didn't notice the differences at all until you sat down in his chair and compared it to hers.

You rub your tired eyes, a bubbling laughter rising up and out of your throat. Look at yourself! You're comparing two people (both of whom you admire deeply) based on the comfort level of their office chairs! How ridiculous! A little wish you created as a child, a wish for a chaos free future and ergonomic office chairs, has suddenly turned you all upside down.

"My chair wasn't good enough?"

Her voice is miraculously playful. That's a relief. You had hoped your sudden departure didn't upset her in any way. You're grinning slightly as you look up, then shake your head, "I, uh. . .no, it's not that, Cath."

She steps further into the office, her arms crossed and her eyes squinting curiously, "Then what?"

You rise from Grissom's chair slowly, laughing a bit as you say, "I was just. . .seeing who had the better chair, that's all."

She quirks an eyebrow at you, before laughing herself, "Right. Okay. Whatever floats your boat."

There's an awkward pause before she pushes, "So, you gonna tell me who wins?"

You feel a blush rising up your neck and you pray it doesn't reach your cheeks. You say as nonchalantly as possible, "Yours."

Catherine shakes her head, finding your conclusion amusing. "That's funny."

"What's funny?" you say.

"You do realize that we both have the same kind of chair?"

You are about to exit the office, when her question stops you. You look over your shoulder and say, "Hmm?"

She is squinting her eyes merrily at you, that grin tugging at her lips. "Ecklie. The budget. Leather, ergonomic office chairs...Were you listening to me at all when I told you about this?"

No, apparently you weren't. Grissom and Catherine both have the same kind of chair, yet you found Catherine's to be more snug? More comfortable? A better fit for you? You shrug, feign ignorance to her question and scoot out of Grissom's office as fast as your bad back will allow.

Catherine is a better fit for you. Yes, yes. Now it is quite clear the problem you have on your hands.

----------------------

You've been sitting out here in the car for a little while now. You have just left his house after a short rendevous. Your excuse for leaving was the same one you had been using before. You left a change of clothes back at your apartment so you had to leave. Only today he managed to ask you, why? Why not bring some of your stuff over to his place? That way, you can stick around a little longer. The thought of leaving your stuff there doesn't sit well with you yet. Upgrading your relationship to "drawer status" is too much for your little mind to comprehend at the moment.

You spy her house again and groan. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you _stalking_ Catherine?

You look at the time again. One minute has passed since you last checked. You can't sit in this car any longer. You need to move.

Oh, you can move after a few more sips of whatever is in this flask.

Okay, okay. That's enough. It's not like you have all morning to do this, so go already. You hop out of your car, cross the street, travel up the drive, then reach the door. As you ring the doorbell, you suddenly don't remember why you even came here. Damn that alcohol. Messing with your short term memory.

Catherine opens the door and says sleepily, "Sara?"

She's clad in just a robe. Or maybe that dirty mind of yours wishes it was just her robe. You figure there is a tank and shorts underneath that garment. Still, not a bad fantasy.

"I don't know why I'm here," you say, offering up a lopsided grin to showcase your fatigue and slight drunkenness. Hey, at least you're being honest.

"Well, that makes two of us," she replies curtly, her tone somewhere between annoyed and confused.

You're not sure what to say, so you say the only thing that's true. Your eyes begin to prickle with emotion as you confess, "I can't seem to get myself to stay."

Now you have her attention, but you're obviously being too vague. Her expression is of complete bewilderment now. Time to clear things up. You repeat, "I can't get myself to stay at his house after we. . .after we're together. I just can't stay. I always find an excuse to go home."

It's taking her a moment to understand, but once she does, her eyes light up like bulbs on a Christmas tree. Why is she so shocked? She had to have seen it coming. You and Grissom. Grissom and you. You feel like you've been wearing a big sign on your back saying, "Yeah, that's right! I'm with him!"

"Come in," she finally says, quickly moving out of the doorway.

You step inside. You step into unknown territory.

----------------------

This isn't what you expected.

In a home where you anticipate the motherly figure to be responsible for cleanliness, her house is chaotic. Newspapers strewn about. Food cartons on the counters. Trash piled up near the back door. Laundry spilling out of baskets, dishes in the sink, shoes in the center of the hallway. You have a feeling this is not all Lindsey's mess.

Of course, you are no expert on kids, but you can't fathom one girl creating this kind of topsyturviness. It's Catherine who is lagging behind in the chores and you can only imagine it's because of what's happened. The kidnapping, the suspected rape, Sam's death. It's only now you wonder: What _has_ she been doing once she has gotten home? Maybe she's not as put together as she lets on at work?

"Coffee?" she offers.

You nod. She does a quick check for usability before deciding it's okay, then begins to prep the coffee machine. You continue to study her house.

Aside from the mess, you find that you love the decor. It's simple and elegant. Light colors all around subtly balanced out with cherry stained, wood furniture. Other fixtures are accented with brass and the gleam of that metal feels very homey to you. You decide that you like it here.

"Sorry about the mess," Catherine says.

"You didn't know I was coming," you say, offering up an apologetic smile. Then you shrug, "This is heaven compared to my place."

"Yeah, about you stopping by. . .," Catherine says, tapering off her sentence on purpose. She wants you to fill in the gap.

There. Your eyes are stinging up again. You shake your head, "Can we talk about anything but that?"

"Sure," she says, being very compliant and tolerant. You don't think she realizes how much you appreciate that right now. You treasure her tolerance of your semi-erratic behavior. She motions to the kitchen table where you take a seat. She sits across from you. A few moments pass before she laughs, "We don't do this."

"Talk?"

"Yeah. We don't talk. I'm not sure what to say here," she says honestly. You find that you really appreciate her honesty as well.

"I guess I better talk about it," you shrug again, now having trouble looking her in the eye. What is this "it" you speak of? The Grissom thing? Your crush on the woman sitting across from you? Both?

"How long?" she asks, maybe figuring questions are the best way to jumpstart the conversation.

Oh, but such a broad question in your case! How long have you and Grissom been an item? How long have you had this crush on Catherine?

"Long enough for you not to have noticed?" you try. It's a suitable answer, you think, to both questions. She smiles, signaling that she understands your apprehension in admitting everything. You manage to smile yourself. You're easing into a state of comfortable conversation, even if the topic is one you'd rather not broach with her. You still don't know why you decided this was a good idea.

You both smell the aroma of coffee and she rises to get you both some. You squirm in your seat which prompts her to inquire if you're in pain. Before you can even answer, she is gone to find some aspirin. Of course, you realize she just needs an excuse to leave the room for a moment. She needs to collect herself. You don't blame her, really. You just dropped a bomb on her.

The aspirin, you know, is unnecessary now. Your back is much better now.

Oh, but what is that? That ache? It's everywhere. It's in your heart. In your soul. In your spiritual being. You're at a loss as to what to do here and no pain killer will fix that.

She comes back, serves up the coffee and pills and sits down again. She has a look of determination as she proclaims, "If Grissom is treating your relationship like some specimen under a microscope, then I reserve every right to kill him myself."

Whoa. You didn't expect that. You stammer, "No, no. You misunderstand. It's not Grissom. I think it's me. More or less."

She tilts her head to the side, thinking. "How so?"

"I. . .well, the thing is. He's been great, for the most part," you try to explain, but you find you can't explain what you don't understand. You sigh heavily, "I am happy."

"You don't sound happy," she points out, her voice tentative. She leans back, maybe anticipating some sort of lashing out from you for even suggesting your state of unhappiness. "I mean, you look tired, Sara."

You rub your eyes. You are tired. You offer up a trite grin and shrug, "Okay, I'm not exactly happy right now, but I am happy with him in general. . ."

"But?" she says, her eyes begging you to make a point or move on.

"There's someone else," you blurt out. Oh, great. That was just really, really great. Let's talk about Catherine to Catherine while Catherine doesn't know you are talking about her. Pure genius! Idiot.

She can see you didn't mean to say that. A big clue might be the deer caught in the headlights expression smothering your face. You try desperately to fix what you said, "Someone else...I've been...that I haven't really had relations with, but just always seemed to. . .be there. In the back of my mind."

You don't know if you make sense anymore. You want to rewind this whole conversation. Better yet, rewind to when you left his house and decided to drive here. Maybe you thought talking to another woman would help you, but why you choose _this_ woman is still a mystery to you! This was a bad idea.

"I think I understand."

She surprises you again. You wince slightly, wondering what she understands exactly. You say, "You do?"

Catherine leans back and nods in the affirmative. "Yeah. There's this other guy out there you've been pining over, but now that this Grissom thing is getting serious, you're wondering about all the 'what ifs'. You wonder if you've missed your chance at something. . .better."

"Better?" you repeat. You don't like that word.

"Okay, maybe not better. Maybe someone who could be even more compatible to your personality," she suggests.

You chuckle. "You're pretty warm, actually."

"_And_. . .," Catherine grins slightly, proud of her ingenuity. "And you keep berating yourself for thinking in that way because you _are_ happy with Grissom and since things seem to be going well, you can't believe you're having second thoughts. Am I hot yet?"

"Scolding," you say jokingly. She is right and she is undoubtedly hot.

You look up at her now, pleading, "What do I do?"

"Have you tried forgetting about this guy?"

Girl. Girl, not guy. Girl. Have you tried forgetting about this girl.

"Yes. Several times over the last several years," you smile sadly.

"Several _years_?" she repeats, astounded.

You almost roll your eyes. Catherine never really had much faith in your social life, so it's always fairly surprising to her when you mention having some sort of need for intimate contact. You hate that about her, yet you love her in general so the love always negates the hate.

She leans back in her chair again and smiles sardonically, "Honey, you're gonna have to find out what this guy really thinks about you and soon. I think what's eating at you is the not knowing."

Girl. You don't know what this _girl_ thinks about you and that is what's eating at you.

You don't say anything. What she is suggesting is easier said than done.

You notice neither one of you has touched the coffee. You haven't swallowed the aspirin. Your eyes have found an interesting knot in the table and you study that. Suddenly, you feel warmth envelope your hand and you look up. Catherine has taken hold of your hand and provides you with the fondest smile she has ever given you. "Sara, you'll be okay. Just get up the nerve and find the answers you're looking for."

"'Kay," you nod. See? That smile? You almost spill your deepest secret right then. You're that other "guy", Catherine. You're that someone else that I don't know about. It's you, you, you, you. . .

You want to say those things so badly, but you don't. You just resort to smiling your thankfulness and wisely keep that mouth of yours shut.

"And your secret is safe with me," Catherine adds, lets your hand go and grabs the full coffee mugs to dump in the sink. Good, you think. Your secret about sleeping with your supervisor is being kept by another co-worker who is practically a supervisor in her own right. This is just perfect.

"I appreciate your help," you say, standing up and tugging on your coat to indicate you want to leave. You have to leave before you say something stupid (or more stupid than what you have already said).

She leads you to the door, but you stand there in the threshold to keep her from closing it. You point at the messy condition of her house and say, "Next time, we talk about this."

Catherine glances over her shoulder and protests, "There is nothing to talk about . . ."

"Catherine," you say softly, forcing her to look at you again. "Next time, we talk about you."

She half smiles this time, "And then what?"

You smile back, "And then we just talk."

For a long second, your heart stops. She hasn't answered. She doesn't want to answer. Then she does answer, "I would like that."

She would like that. The two of you are going to talk and she would like that.

You're still very, very screwed.

To be continued. . .


	3. You are the reluctant romantic

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: See Part One

**The Irony of It All**

by e-dog

**Part Three: You are the reluctant romantic.**

You are exhausted.

Somewhere between that chat at Catherine's house and now, you decided to split your time between the four main aspects of your life: Work, Grissom, Catherine and sleep.

Unfortunately, eating got lost in the shuffle.

Work takes up most of your time, yet meshes with your Grissom and Catherine time. You have alone time with Grissom and alone time with Catherine, marked off specifically so that they never overlap one another. The sleep falls somewhere in between the cracks of the other three. As stated before, you're exhausted. You feel like you're juggling two lovers, hoping neither one discovers what it is you're really up to.

You do remind yourself over and over that the time spent with Catherine is completely platonic. You want it to be more, but you know even _wanting_ it is wrong. For now, friendship is all you can ask for. Grissom is always lurking somewhere in the catacombs of your mind and heart. However, thoughts of betraying Grissom have not kept you at bay.

For the last few weeks, you've been keeping your promise. You've been talking with Catherine about her. You've been trying to coax out her feelings on the suspected rape. On _her_ suspected rape. You eat breakfast together after shift, each outing becoming more and more comfortable. Each time getting closer and closer to that critical point of recognition.

"I know you said to drop it," you begin. It's nearing the end of your breakfast.

"That I did. _Several_ times," Catherine cuts you off pointedly. "I've cried enough about this, Sara. I'm done crying."

Today was the day you decided to be tough. You can already feel your resolve crumbling.

"I don't want you to cry, Cath," you say quietly. You hope your concern comes across as just that: concern. Needless to say, you are frustrated. "Have you talked to anyone?"

"I don't want to _talk_ about it, Sara. I don't want to _think_ about it," she says, dropping her fork onto her empty plate to show her annoyance with you. She doesn't like it when you harp on this issue. Quite frankly, you don't care. It's been a few weeks since the incident and while she seems "okay" with it, you certainly can't take it anymore.

You have nightmares of the rape being true. You wake up sweating and panting, hoping and wishing it's not true. You have to stop yourself from phoning her to make sure she's alive. You have to stop yourself.

Sometimes you wake Grissom with your tossing and turning. He's asked several times what kinds of delusions are startling you with such anguish each night. You can't say. It takes all the power within you to turn over and mumble that it's nothing. Except, what happens inside your head is more than nothing. There is pain and suffering and you can't stop it. At least here, in the real world, you can help to ease that pain.

"You want to know why abuse cases get to me?" you nearly snarl. Has it really come to this? Do you have to bare your soul to get this woman to admit she was frightened?

"Sara. . .," Catherine shakes her head.

"My mother was a victim. My father beat the crap out of her all the time," you forge on.

Okay, maybe you could've been a bit more eloquent, but Catherine is visibly shocked by your omission. Good. She needs to be.

"Sara. . ."

"No. I'm going to finish." You pause and she remains quiet. Another deep breath and you go on. This time, your voice is at an eerie calm as you retell this story for only the second time in your life. Ironically, to your pseudo-supervisor.

"She finally couldn't take it anymore. She flipped out and you know, I was in the house and I could hear the shouting but I didn't know. . .I didn't realize that she had gone after my dad with a knife and literally gutted him. I just. . .she went too long without saying anything about it. She went _too_ long without feeling and I know my situation is different from yours, but you have to understand bottling this up is not. . ."

"So, you think I'm going to stab someone?" she snaps at you. Stubborn Bitch Catherine has reared its ugly head.

"No! For fuck's sake, Catherine!" you exclaim, sweat forming on your brow. You don't know whether to be mad, embarrassed or confused. You feel that your honesty is being kicked to the curb and yes, that angers you, but bashfulness settles in quickly as you realize that maybe this kind of honesty could've been left to another time. This was the wrong approach. "Catherine, no I don't think . . . you are most definitely not my mother."

Catherine's anger dissipates quickly and she shakes her head, "Sara, I didn't mean to. . ."

Just like most of her apologies, her sentence trails off into nothingness. Your forcefulness, your strength to continue this conversation is gone, replaced with awkward quiesce.

"I'm still pissed," she says, breaking the silence.

"Pissed?" you repeat, not sure what she's referring to.

She nearly growls, "I'm so fucking pissed off, Sara. You know, I could feel myself losing it. I could _feel_ it and I saw Nicky walking away from me. He was waving at me and I just _sat_ there."

Holy crap, it worked. She's talking about it. Now you must listen and you do.

You listen to her words. You listen to her breathing. You listen to her utter disbelief as her words come out clipped and angry. She blames herself. She can't believe with all the years of CSI experience under her belt, she couldn't stop what happened to her.

Weeks ago, you had been angry with Nick. Learning he had left her at that club alone when she was clearly intoxicated infuriated you. How could he not have known? How could he not see? Only now, hearing Catherine recall the events, you realize that Nick really _didn't_ know. Besides, for reasons you won't disclose to her yet, you wish her anger was directed at you. She should be mad at you.

So you grab her hand and hold onto her tightly. "Catherine, the last thing you or Nick expected . . .what happened wasn't something you could've. . ."

Catherine isn't listening to you. She shakes her head as if she doesn't really comprehend the words leaving her mouth. "I don't even remember...I knew I had been drugged and I didn't move. I knew and I didn't. I let that man. . ."

"_No_. No, you didn't let anyone do anything to you," you cut in, your voice low and tormented. "That's like me, blaming myself all these years for not knowing the difference between the screams of someone hurting and the screams of someone dying. I blamed myself for allowing my mother to kill him. I know now that wasn't my fault. What happened to you wasn't your fault either, Catherine."

"I know that. We always tell the victims that," she replies, her voice shaking. She bites her lower lip, holding tears at bay. "I just...can't help but feel like it is my fault. I know how _they_ feel now."

They. The victims. You used to think you knew how they felt too. You wanted to be their advocate and maybe you still do. However, Catherine now has a leg up on you in that department. She was one of them. The perp didn't go all the way; he didn't defile her in a way that was irreversible, but the thought alone is enough. The thought that she might have been. . .the thought alone is enough.

Catherine has only shed one visible tear that you can see. You want to wipe it away, but she does before you can. You both look around hoping your little bonding session is falling on deaf ears. Thankfully, this place is usually deserted at 6 in the morning. A few avid coffee drinkers on the stools, but you are very much alone. She sneers at you, "I hate you for that."

You almost laugh. You can hear the mock hurt in her voice. "Really? You hate me?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

The next several minutes are spent playing with cold food and stirring cold coffee. Your hands are still joined together, her grip so secure you think the blood circulation has stopped flowing in your fingertips.

You reluctantly (and finally) pull your hand out of hers and say softly, "Thank you."

She pushes a light chuckle through her lips, "For what? Making a fool of myself in front of you again?"

A fool? Never.

"For talking," you smile. "_Really_ talking this time."

There's a small smile adorning her face and you can tell she is glad. Glad you made her talk. Suddenly, her eyes light up briefly, maybe realizing something. She slowly broadens her smile and says, "I couldn't figure out why you were pushing me to talk about it. Not until this very moment. . ."

You don't know what game this is now, but you attempt to play along. You lean back and shrug, "What does that mean?"

"You seemed so nonchalant before. When you showed up, you were all business," she goes on. There's a twinkle in her eyes. They are shining with some emotion you can't place. "Then you got all weird. You had to know why I called you to help me. I guess I don't blame you. . ."

"I was curious, Cath. That's all," you say, still not sure what's going on here. What is she getting at?

"Now this. Going out to breakfast, showing up at my house unannounced," she lists, using her hands to emphasize her words. "You were a bit inebriated that morning, I might add."

You blush slightly.

"There's a point here, right?" you tease. Teasing may be the only way to distract her from the revelation you think she's about to make. She knows that you. . .she must know that you are. . .

"I guess what I'm trying to say here is, I'm grateful for your concern," she finishes.

Oh. So, she did read your concern as concern. That's good.

"I know this will sound awful of me, but I thought your attentions had an alternate agenda," she confesses. You wince slightly because she is right. You are concerned, but you're also doing whatever you can to keep her close without crossing the line. She waves it off as if that's nothing, "I know you genuinely care now. I'm sorry I doubted you."

Of course you care. After working alongside her and dreaming about her and wanting her for the last six years, how could you not?

"I do care," you say softly, almost too low to be heard. She mistakes the softness in your tone as hurt and not tenderness.

"That's why I'm apologizing," she sighs at you. "I keep letting our past cloud my judgement of you."

"So do I," you reply. "I used to think. . .I thought. . ."

You're saying too much again. You can't really backpedal now either.

Catherine raises a curious eyebrow at you, "You thought what, Sara?"

Here goes nothing. That coffee you drained starts to feel a bit like whiskey. Caffeine, be your saving grace.

"I thought you were perfect," you say, your jaw clenching slightly. Before she can cut in, you add quickly, "I thought you didn't hurt like me. I thought that everything about you was _perfect_ and therefore, you couldn't _hurt_. I . . .I want to apologize for ever thinking that about you."

She scoffs, but not in a way that shuns you. In fact, it sounds like an admission to your statement. Maybe at one point, she thought she was perfect too. She jokes, "I guess the state of my house told you otherwise?"

"Eddie's case. That's when I figured it out," you admit. "That hurt I could see on your face. . .it crushed me. I couldn't forgive myself."

"Oh, Sara," she gasps. "No, sweetheart. I should've. . .I didn't mean to make you feel like that."

No, she meant it. Maybe she regrets it now, but she meant it then. Both of you know that.

You shake your head as if it doesn't matter anymore and wave your hand at the waitress. It's time for the check. Catherine offers to pay for the whole thing. You won't let her.

This was supposed to be about her. You got her to open up, even if that meant you had to expose a piece of your soul as collateral damage. Mission accomplished.

She doesn't need to pity you. You want to take care of her and you will.

----------------------

You are the reluctant romantic, stuck between two loves: one fully fledged, the other pure mania. So what will you do about it? You sure as hell don't know. You can't just go on like everything is fine. There is not one singular thing about this situation that is "fine".

There are days you can only think of him. There are days when he is your world and you suddenly know that he is forever. Then she appears from nowhere with her blinding smile, sparkling eyes and caring caress. She is a lot of things that he isn't. She has a lot of things that you need. Things he can't give you. There are days when you can only think of her.

It would be an understatement to say you're driving yourself batty. You are stuck between two loves: one recognized, the other in shadow.

Someone gave you some advice once. She told you to get up the nerve and find the answers that you were looking for. Well, you tried to. You tried very hard to get those answers not too long ago.

It was your normal breakfast "date" and you were both talking sports. Sports of all things! She told you that she longed to try rock climbing. She wasn't talking about that artificial rock wall either. She wanted to _really_ rock climb on a real mountain face. You watched her shrug as she sighed, "I just never found the time."

"Well, maybe we could go sometime," you had suggested. Even now, you feel the suggestion was too bold. She didn't seem to think so.

"You and me?" she mused, before flashing that easy smile and agreeing, "Yeah, maybe we could go. Sometime."

You had been so caught up in the conversation (and the fact that she sort of almost agreed to go rock climbing with you), you forgot all about inquiring on her sexual preference. It's funny because, as you look back on it now, you're still not sure _how_ you were going to bring that up. "Oh, hey Cath. Just letting you know, I'm bi-sexual. I like you and I was just wondering (and don't feel pressured into answering now or anything), I was just wondering whether or not you appreciate the finer sex. Like I said, no pressure."

Um. No.

No, no, no. That probably wouldn't have worked well at all. So what would have been the ideal approach? Is it really as simple as just asking? What do you do if she shuts you down? More importantly, what do you do if the feelings are reciprocated? You still have that small matter of Grissom to contend with.

You glance around the bar watching other drunkards such as yourself stumble from bar stool to bar stool, looking for the latest hook up. You spot a cute, young thing eyeing you, but politely shake your head to show your disinterest. She had you pegged from the moment you walked in and hasn't stopped staring at you with needy eyes. A small part of you was willing. A larger part reminded you of Grissom and squashed the idea of a quickie rather boldly. Anyway, now that she knows you're unavailable, she averts her eyes to other potential playmates.

You sigh. You wish you had asked Catherine out. You know, making the rock climbing "date" an actual date. Seeing how since then all you've managed to do is piss her off, you really regret not trying. She absolutely hates you now and not that you blame her. It was a typical fight. She said something, you yelled, she yelled back and bada bing! Your newfound friendship was over. The two of you haven't had breakfast together in the last three days.

"You look lonely," he says, plopping in the seat across from you. It's Greg. You didn't tell anyone where you were going after shift, so now you're almost certain the poor boy is stalking you. Before you can ask how he knew where to find you, he holds up a hand and says, "I come to this lovely establishment all the time. I recognized your car."

"You stop here, at The Lucky Lady bar, after shift every morning to order a gin and tonic?" you observe, your hand gesturing toward his half empty glass.

"Okay, I followed you. I'm sorry," he confesses, a wry grin crossing his face. "I just noticed today...you were different. I thought I might see what was up."

"Different?" you repeat curiously.

"Bitchy," he clarifies.

Your relationship with Greg is that of brother and sister. Very comfortable. So comfortable, he can get away with calling you 'bitchy' on occasion. In the past, you might have thrown him through a wall and liked it. For the moment, however, you're letting it slide. The only thing really bothering you: Is Greg here as a brother or as a hormonal teenaged boy?

He doesn't try to hide his affection for you. He often stares at you with unrequited lust. Thankfully, you don't feel the same for him because being in love with two people is hard enough. No sense in adding a third. You watch his eyes and relief washes over you. He has wisely come here out of concern and not because he feels he can 'score' with you.

"Nothing is up," you finally say, taking a sip of your third beer. "And I wasn't being bitchy."

"Oh, yeah. You were. Especially with Grissom," he adds.

"No, I wasn't," you argue back, some sharpness in your tone.

He gives you that 'I told you so' look and says, "See? You're being bitchy."

You sigh heavily, "I said, nothing is up. Drop it."

"No?" he says, sounding very skeptical. "I dunno. I guess I've just noticed that you and Catherine have been rather chummy lately and well, you both smile more as a result. But the last two days, not so much. You two have a fight or something?"

"No," you shake your head. Another sip of beer and you begin to feel the buzz.

"You sure? I coulda sworn she glared at you today during the staff meeting," Greg recalls, his eyes squinting really hard as he replays that scene in his head. You used to think Hodges was bad with gossip, but you realize now that Greg is just as bad. You bet he has a Slam Book on each and every single staff member at the LVPD.

You wince and retort, "She didn't glare at me." You begin to peel at the label on your bottle and correct him, "More like she was shooting flaming daggers at me with her eyes."

"So you did fight?"

"Yes, Greg."

"Was there KY jelly involved?" he asks mischievously.

This time, it's your turn to glare at him and he profusely apologizes. You finish off your drink and wave at a passing bartender for another. Greg drains his beverage as well, then requests whatever it is you're drinking. He leans forward and teases, "You gonna tell me what's wrong or are you gonna drown your sorrow in cheap beer?"

"I think I'm going to punch you in the face," you threaten, but can't keep from smiling. Greg has this gift for making you smile. It's either his charm or the fact that he can be absolutely goofy, even when the chips are down.

Your drinks arrive and he immediately gulps down half of his. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then leans back into the soft cushions of the booth. With a much more serious expression, he prods, "C'mon, Sara. What's up with you and Catherine?"

You sputter on your drink. "Ex–excuse me? Me and Catherine?"

"I see how she looks at you," Greg whistles. "I wish she would look at me like that."

Your heart thumps faster. She's looking at you? Since when? How is she looking at you? How _long_ has she been looking at you? Nervously, you drink some more and smack your lips loudly. With as much control as you can muster, you smoothly reply, "I don't know what you're talking about, Greg. In fact, I think you're crazy. Cath is as straight as they come."

"So you admit to liking her?" he baits.

"I didn't say that," you say sharply. "I'm merely pointing out that Catherine doesn't _look_ at other women, therefore, she wouldn't be looking at me."

"But are you attracted to her?" he pushes. You are _this_ close to smacking him. If it's one thing he's good at, it's sleuthing. You really should blame yourself for this skill. You taught him every CSI trick in the book, including the art of interrogation.

Okay, so how do you answer this without exposing your little crush on Ms. Willows? You admit casually, "Catherine is an attractive woman, no arguing that."

"Go on," he grins slightly.

You roll your eyes, "I just told you she's attractive, Greg. What more do you want? You want me to point out that she's also irritating, stubborn, relentless. Beautiful. . ."

"So you are attracted to her," he states matter of factly.

"Yes, Greg! I am attracted to her!" you almost shout. His elfish eyes gleam at you.

Damn. How did you fall into that one again? The one thing you were trying _not_ to do and you just did it. So, where is that clamp for your mouth? The one that you ordered a week ago? You could sure use it now.

Okay, okay. What to do now. . .what to do now... Back peddle! Now would be a good time to back peddle! "Greg, I mean...Catherine is my co-worker and I can't. . .I'm not attracted to her. I'm okay, really. I'm just tired." You pause and add, "And I'm probably a tad drunk."

He glances at your empty beer bottles and observes, "For someone who claims to be okay, you sure are drinking like your girlfriend just broke up with you."

"Catherine is not my . . .", you begin to argue, but cut yourself short. What's the point? You've known Greg long enough to know he'll believe what he wants to believe. You sigh, knowing the only way to set things straight. Time for honesty. You look at him, "Okay, okay. You got me. What do you want to know?"

"Are you two dating?" he starts.

"No," you say confidently. He frowns in disappointment, mostly because he knows you're telling the truth now. You're nursing your beer now and continue, "I've had a crush on her for a while."

"Haven't we all?" Greg jokes lightly. He doesn't seem to mind that you've just outed yourself as bi-sexual. Then again, Greg has probably fantasized of you and Catherine together. With him. No, he wouldn't mind at all.

There's a bit of silence before he asks, "So, you asked her out and she said no?"

"I haven't done anything," you answer with frustration. "That's the problem. I can't really do anything about it."

"Why not?"

"Other complications," you say. "And I won't go into those other complications, so don't ask."

He chuckles to which you quirk an eyebrow. Is he laughing at you? He sees your confusion and elaborates. "I'm sorry. I guess I never thought of you as having 'complications', before. You seem very straight forward on the surface, Sara. A person with no secrets, no hidden truths and especially no mystery man (or woman) waiting at home. It seems I have underestimated you."

You smile at Greg's angelic description of you. You forget sometimes that only Grissom truly knows anything about you. Little by little, Catherine is learning more about you. However, Nick, Greg, Warrick and the other lab techs merely see 'work-o-holic Sara'. They don't know you.

A sort of sadness washes over you as you realize that fact. They really don't know you. You agree with him, "Yeah, there's more to me than meets the eye."

He laughs, "Ooo, a mystery woman! Seriously, I think I've fallen even more in love with you!"

----------------------

It's funny. You do feel like Catherine has broken up with you.

Okay, so there was a fight. You flipped out (mostly due to fatigue) and now it's time to make nice again. You miss her. You miss what little you had with her. You want it back.

You've been trying to devise a way to talk to her about your own anxiety and the reasons behind that anxiety. It's hard to imagine yourself as anxious. Stressed or determined or headstrong would be better descriptions of you, but anxious?

Anxious when she speaks. Anxious when she looks at you. Anxious whenever you catch Grissom talking with her. What are they talking about? Is it you? Is it about Sam or Lindsey? Most importantly, are they talking about _you_???

You don't know. Damn it, you just don't know. So, maybe it's about time you found out.

You're back at your favorite spot. The manufactured park. As you stroll along the lane, you realize the benches never looked more false or uninviting. The lamps now glow this eerie orange reminding you of the upcoming Halloween holiday. The river water is really foamy today. You love it all.

Why do you love this place so much anyway? So many flaws. It has many flaws. Just like you.

You're not too sure who built this place, but you can't even begin to understand how they thought a river frothed and foamed like this! You're convinced someone purposely dumps soap into the water just to create this unimaginably fictitious river activity.

So a real river does what, exactly? Flows? Glistens? Maybe the water should be as smooth as glass, sunbeams bouncing off with shimmers and sparkles lighting up this little bridge from below?

Hmph. Maybe that's too perfect.

You lean on the rail, staring out at the horizon. You had thought of bringing Grissom here with you. You had wanted to show him this piece of you, but you decided against it. It's not that he doesn't enjoy simplicity either, but he may not appreciate the imperfections like you do. He would rather trek along a real trail, up in some real mountains and find a real river. Only then would the simple pleasures really offer some sort of pleasure.

You think that Catherine would like this. She could bring Lindsey. You feel the young woman might like it here too, but what do you know about teenagers anyway? She might hate it here. There's nothing fun here. A kiddie slide down the bend might entertain her for all of five seconds. She might like it here. You don't know. You wish you knew!

You wish you knew something with at least a shred of certainty.

When you hear your name called from a distance, you can't fight the smile. You do know this. You know you can't keep her more than an arms length from you anymore. You're friends, whether you like it or not. You enjoy her company. You think she enjoys yours. You're allowed to have this. To have her friendship. You want more.

"Hey," Catherine says, walking up to you. Her shoes clomp loudly on the bridge, breaking up the tranquillity. She remarks, "I had the worst time finding this place."

"It's tucked away," you agree. "I'm not even sure the locals know it's here."

"On the phone, you said you wanted to show me something?" she inquires, leaning on the rail next to you.

You smile, "Yeah."

"So what is it?"

Deep breath. You gesture with your arm out in front of you and say, "This."

She looks out, her brow furrowing inquisitively. It doesn't really surprise you that she's confused. Catherine is about night clubs and dancing; good times had by all. Nature (even when it's manufactured) is not her. This is not her thing. You see her glance down at the water and she laughs, "Is that soap?"

You chuckle, "I think so."

"You wanted to show me this?" she says, now gesturing to out there somewhere. You nod. She sticks a tongue in her cheek, clearly in thought before she says, "I see."

"Do you see?" you ask, biting your lower lip. You lean on the rail with just a single elbow now, your entire body turned toward her.

"No, I guess not," she flashes an embarrassed smile. Now she turns around completely, leaning back against the rail now. Her back arches ever so slightly, accentuating her grace. The sounds of the water provide the perfect soundtrack and the sun shimmers those gold locks. The stillness all around you is absolutely whimsical. She's gorgeous and only now do you finally admit that with the utmost honesty. She_ is _gorgeous.

She confesses to you, "I'm not sure what you want me to see here."

"I was here that morning," you say, your words not particularly directed at her, but to any being that is listening to you at this moment. "I had left his house and drove here. I thought about a lot of things. I thought about the future. My future."

"Was it the case that made you so introspective?" she asks. "The suicide?"

"No, not really," you shrug. "I didn't feel particularly guilty. I mean, I did _feel _something, but the case didn't bring me here that day. I really wanted to watch the sun, but. . .I dunno, really. I just wanted you to know I was here. . .that morning."

"So this is about me?"

Her question doesn't sound malicious or angry. It sounds flat. Almost uncaring. So what if you were here while she could have been potentially raped or assaulted? You sigh, "You invited everyone to join you that night. Nick was the only one there and. . .. Grissom turned down the invite because of me. Because of _me_, he wasn't there to keep an eye on you. . ."

"Sara," she hushes you. "What's done is done, okay?"

"Okay. I'm just sorry."

"Everyone is sorry, Sara."

"But not as sorry as me," you state, your tone harsher and louder than you intended. "When I was at that motel and I couldn't find anything, I was so pissed off. I thought I had failed you, you know? I thought I had messed up again. I couldn't find anything."

Catherine cups your face immediately with both her hands to make sure you are looking at her. When you lock eyes with her, she speaks, "No, Sara. You didn't mess up. You never did. That's why I wanted you there. I knew you wouldn't let me down and you didn't. If anything, I made your job harder. I processed myself. I took a shower. I put you in a tough position. . ."

"Cath, I'm just. . ."

"That's enough, Sara," she says sharply, but a soft grin accompanies her hard tone. "That man who drugged me was going to get me. If not that night, than another. He wanted to hurt Sam through me, so at some point, he would've gotten to me. Don't blame yourself. I don't."

"Yeah, okay," you nod. Her fingers slowly leave burn trails down your cheeks as her hands slide away. You can feel a tear or two running down your face. Her thumb wipes it away, the contact nearly leaving you breathless. You can't help but laugh and say, "Now who's being the fool? I've turned into a sniveling girl."

"Oh I don't know Sara," she laughs, her gaze now on the horizon. "Honesty has a way of making fools out of anyone."

You think that maybe she is saying thank you. Thank you for being honest. Thank you for allowing her to be honest with you.

You smirk and say, "So, we're talking again?"

"Yeah, we're talking again," she agrees with a small chuckle.

Silence rules the next few moments before she sighs deeply and proclaims with soft sincerity, "This place really is beautiful."

You smile. Yeah. It is.

To be continued. . .


	4. You have to be honest with yourself

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: See Part One

**The Irony of It All**

by e-dog

**Part Four: You have to be honest with yourself.**

She _has_ been looking at you.

You're almost certain and hey, lets be honest, okay? You're almost never certain of anything, but this...this you're really, really close to being sure of. So, um, evidence of this would be. . .?

Okay, first. In the breakroom. You just happened to randomly glance up from tying your boot and she was standing by her locker just. . ._looking_ at you. A brief, abashed smile adorned her lips before she busied herself in her locker to find whatever the hell it was she was searching for. Returning your attention to tying your shoes, you equated that first incident to being random, but later. . .

You were in the trace lab with Hodges. She was holding a report that Hodges was explaining to her, but she wasn't listening to him. In fact, she wasn't even looking at the report. She was looking at _you_. You tried to act casual about the whole thing, but her stare was full of heat. Heat and something else you couldn't quite describe and you were beginning to suffocate under that stare so you turned away. It's not unusual for her to be looking at you when discussing evidence, so you let that slide too. That is, until the third and final incident in the breakroom.

You had poured some coffee and went fishing for sweeteners in the community bowl of sugar packets when you had this sudden urge to turn around. So you did and she was sitting there, holding the latest edition of some fashion magazine up to her face. For a split second, you swear you caught her staring at you over the edges of her periodical.

So now you're both sitting at the table, drinking coffee and pretending to read whatever newspapers are in front of you. Nick is falling in and out of sleep on the couch, his long legs hanging over the arm. Even though the papers are rustling and fax machines are ringing down the hall and Nick's snoring reverberates through the air occasionally, it's still way too quiet in here.

To think that Greg had been right! That Catherine had been looking at you. That she _is_ looking at you!

Grissom walks by the breakroom, his enigmatic shadow filters in through the doorway casting a little bit of darkness on the table. He doesn't stop in to say hello or to check up on you. In fact, you two haven't spoken all shift. You don't really expect him to say hello or anything like that. As of right now, the two of you are in the midst of a fight. Not like a shouting match you would have with Catherine. No, that might actually be exciting. This was a heated argument over your reluctance to stay at his house. You've been having this "fight" for a while now.

"I'm sick of this being a one night stand every night," he complained calmly. He was angry with you, but not yelling at you. He had turned your argument into some kind of debate. Sometimes you wish the fight had been more about throwing furniture and less about the debating.

"I don't see them as one night stands, Gris," you had shot back. That kind of insinuation angered you, although you're not sure why. That was how this whole damn thing started, wasn't it? Both of you needing something, needing someone after a long and trying shift? Yeah, that's how it started and then it never ended. It kept going and maybe that surprised you. It may have surprised him too.

"Then stay," he requested calmly. "Stay all day. Stay with me."

You couldn't stay and you couldn't tell him why. So, he broke up with you. Well, it's more like a break from the relationship. You feel like an awkward college kid all over again. The idea of "taking a break" feels completely childish and immature. Of course, your relationship has been everything but mature, you feel. A piece of you still gets all giddy when you walk the halls of the lab. You have a big secret that no one else knows about. You are with Grissom and only the two of you know about it.

Well, that's not really true anymore, is it? Catherine knows.

You glance over to her again, but her eyes are intently reading her magazine. Okay, let's just re-evaluate the situation here. You and Grissom are on a break. You are almost certain that Catherine has been looking at you and your libido is sort of going into overdrive at the thought. So, isn't this the window of opportunity you've been looking for? Shouldn't you try your luck with her? See if she feels the same? Guilt still clouds your mind because you realize that 14 hours into your break from Grissom, you miss him already.

You nearly groan out loud at your own fickleness. Someone, please, just load up a pistol so you can blow your own brains out right now. _Please_.

"Wanna get breakfast after shift?" she asks, her question shocking you mostly because you haven't been paying attention. Where are you? Right, the breakroom. You're in the breakroom. Get it together, Sidle.

"Yeah, sure."

"Great."

You nod, "Yeah, great."

"See you later," she says quickly, rises from her chair and almost skips out of the room. Okay, that was a bit. . .weird.

"Woo, that was awkward. I could feel the tension all the way over here!" Nick proclaims, opening his eyes to reveal that he had never gone to sleep in the first place. He sits up, "Are you two fighting again?"

His question almost sounds hopeful. Hopeful? Hopeful that you and Catherine are fighting? Something about him is off. Well, something about him has been off ever since his impromptu burial over a year ago. He's more aggressive, more vocal, more everything. While charming Nick Stokes still exists, there's this brumous, bitter side that rises up out of nowhere every once in a while. Quite frankly, it scares you because you never know when that acrimonious Nick Stokes will appear and you never know what it is he's going to do. Slam a suspect into the wall? Invite you out to dinner? You just don't know. . .

"No, we're not fighting," you say warily. "Why do you ask?"

"I just...well, like I said, the tension," he says, stumbling over his words. He swings his feet around to the floor and stands up to stretch. "Anyway, usually when you two are all stiff and awkward around each other, you just had a fight or something."

"What is this? The Sara and Catherine Hour?" you exclaim. "First Greg, now you. Is our relationship constantly under the radar or something? Are there hidden cameras around here that I don't know about?"

"No, no, it's not like that, Sara. Calm down," Nick says nervously. He rubs the back of his neck, "It's just. . . more noticeable when you two...aren't getting along, I guess?"

You raise an eyebrow, not believing any of the words leaving his mouth. Something is going on here and whatever it is, you have a feeling that . . ..

He sighs and shrugs, "Sanders?"

. . .that Sanders is behind it. Damn that kid! How could Greg do that to you? How could he tell Nick about your crush on Catherine without your consent? Not to mention outing you! However, knowing Greg better than anyone else in the lab, you can't see him being that insensitive. There has to be another reason and only Nick can give you the answers.

You stand up, the tension that Nick was speaking of suddenly balled up in your fists and shoulders. Your muscles are tight with rage and your eyes begin to burn with feelings of betrayal. You see fear light up in Nick's eyes and this only encourages you to let your anger guide you. To allow that anger to control you just like it controls Nick from time to time.

You have never felt this tall or this intimidating in all your life as you stalk up to Nick and growl, "What exactly did Greg say to you?"

Nick stutters, "Um, w-w-well, it wasn't really Greg that. . .um, you see, I guess I put the idea in his head that maybe you and Cath. . ."

"That me and Catherine _what_, Nicky?" you say. You might have even managed to snarl just then too, because he stumbles backwards and almost trips over the couch.

"It was just a little payback," Nick finally gets out. There's a flash of anger in his eyes, quickly replaced with embarrassment.

You stop, your wrath suddenly washing away. Now you're confused. "Payback? For what?"

Nick's face is burning red with shame. He lowers his eyes and explains, "Cath was right about us. Well, maybe she was right about _me_ more than the other guys. I was jealous of you. Jealous of you and Catherine." He pauses before adding, "Maybe I was just mad that I had ruined my relationship with her and you were reaping all the benefits."

"Nick, what the hell are you talking about?" you sigh, as you gesture toward the couch. You both sit down.

"Greg and I went out and had a few drinks. He commented on how Catherine seemed to have taken a liking to you again. Going out to breakfast and all after shift. So, I told Greg that maybe you and Cath were. . .together. Like a couple," Nick confesses. He can't even look you in the eyes anymore. "I don't even know what got into me, Sara. All I know is that Catherine has barely spoken more than two words to me since. . .that night. I miss her."

Nick spread a rumor? About you and Cath?

Wow.

Who _is_ this man sitting in front of you? The Nick Stokes you know doesn't involve himself in office gossip (at least, not to the point of Hodges or Greg). Nick usually minds his own business. He usually keeps his private life and private thoughts to himself. Then again, the Nick sitting in front of you has changed. He's not the same man who used to tease you and kid around with you. He's not the same man who sided with you when Catherine cheated you both out of a big case; nearly ruining a promotion for the both of you. He's not the same man, period.

You open your mouth to say something, then shut it again. What can you say to him? Nick _did_ pick up on something. You've got it bad for Catherine, there's no denying that, but she obviously doesn't know about it. Or at least you hope she doesn't know. . .oh no. Shit!

You glare at Nick, realizing that maybe Catherine has been staring at you, not out of longing or lust, but because of Nick and his drunken rumor spreading!

"Nick, is it possible that Cath heard this rumor?" you say as calmly as possible. You see him wince and that's all the answer you need. She got wind of the rumor Nick spread and. . .and. . .damn it all to hell, Nick Stokes! Damn, damn, damn! Catherine now thinks you like her (which is the truth), but hell, you didn't want her finding out this way!

You can only think of one thing to say that won't involve cussing him out. You state plainly, "Nick, you're an idiot."

"Thanks," he winces again, his lips stretched into a thin smile of disgrace.

"No, I mean it. You are an idiot," you repeat, punctuating each word sharply. "What made you say something like that to Greg anyway? Do you know the kinds of fantasies you initiated in that juvenile brain of his?"

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"And Catherine, oh god," you rub your eyes. "I thought she had been giving me funny looks all night. If she knows, than the whole fucking office knows...Grissom knows. . ."

You stop as fear clutches your chest and squeezes you tightly. How long ago was it, when Greg suggested that maybe you and Catherine were an item? You cringe as you realize, it was the night before your big fight with Grissom. Catherine never came up during your fight, but now you understand why Grissom was so calm about the whole thing. He wasn't just angry. He was hurt. He thought that you had. . .

You turn away from Nick, mostly to keep from throwing up on him.

"I know you got a thing for Grissom, Sara," Nick mumbles, his voice so pathetic you almost hug him. "I guess I ruined whatever chance you had with that too. Fuck me, I _am_ an idiot."

"You didn't ruin a chance, Nick," you say quietly. "The chance already happened."

"What?"

"Grissom and I are sorta on a break anyway," you confess, a bit of sad smile tugging on your lips. To clear up this rumor, you're gonna have to be honest. Everyone is going to have to be honest, right? The only reason you're around Catherine so much is because you can't stop thinking about her. You can't stop worrying about her. Of course your colleagues would notice that sudden closeness. What was it that Catherine had told you? That honesty has a way of making fools out of anyone?

"On a break?" he repeats. His next question is harsh, "How long?"

"A while," you say.

"I mean, I knew about your crush, but Sara. . .," Nick mumbles. "He's your boss. He's _our_ boss. I thought if you two ever got it together, one of you would be smart enough to step down!"

"Don't lecture me," you glare at him, your voice bitter. "Don't you even try and lecture me, Nick. Not after you told everyone else I was dating our other supervisor."

Nick shuts his mouth, conflicting emotions flashing across his face. He finally decides on shame. He whispers, "I ruined your entire thing, didn't I? I practically told the whole office that you and Cath were. . .and now you and Grissom are. . .I'm going to fix this, Sara. I swear I'll fix it."

"Yeah, you are definitely going to fix it," you say calmly. You are surprised at your own poise, actually. Nothing would please you more than to tear Nick limb from limb, but maybe you saw this coming? At some point, you and Grissom would have no longer been a secret. You pat Nick on the knee and say,"You are going to say you lied and clear everything up, okay?"

"Okay, okay," he agrees wholeheartedly. "I'll speak to Cath first."

"No, no, I'll talk to her," you say immediately. "You go to Greg first, then Hodges, then. . ."

"Ecklie," Nick half smiles. "We all know Hodges went to Ecklie. Hodges is such an ass kisser."

"Right," you sigh, forgetting briefly about Ecklie. You'd rather not talk to that man ever again, if that's possible.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Nick repeats again, his voice straining.

"Everyone is sorry, Nick," you reply softly. You grab his hand and reassure, "And Catherine's not mad at you, you know? She's not mad at anyone but herself."

"She's mad with herself?" Nick nearly gasps. "But why? She couldn't have done anything. I was the one who. . ."

"Nick, you didn't know," you tell him. "And I've already told her it wasn't her fault. Several times. I even tried to blame myself. Doesn't matter. She still blames herself. Most victims of circumstance do."

"Right, right," he nods. He looks you in the eyes and bites his lower lip before speaking, "I really am sorry, Sara. I was just so damn needy and guilt ridden and. . ."

"Drunk?" you provide jokingly, letting him know you're not as angry as you were. Why should you be angry? You're no angel either.

He chuckles lightly, "Yeah. I was drunk." He gives you a quick peck on the cheek, then pulls you into a grateful embrace and says, "Thanks for not killing me. I was a jerk."

"Yeah, you were," you agree, hugging him back. "You were definitely a jerk."

Silently, you thank him for being such a big jerk. This whole honesty thing is beginning to make you feel good and maybe it's about time you really started being honest with yourself. He pulls out of the hug, then says discreetly, "Can we talk about the you and Grissom thing? Maybe later?"

You squint your eyes, intrigued. "Why?"

"Well," Nick sighs, clearly not sure himself. You wait patiently as he gathers his thoughts. "Well, because we're friends. Friends should talk about these things."

Of course, Nick and his need for loyalty. You should've expected this. Still, you are bewildered. "Nick, you practically accused me of sleeping with our boss for professional advancement. To say I'm confused by what you're asking for is an understatement."

Nick makes a face as if to say, yeah, you're right. He takes your hand in his and says sincerely, "Look, I didn't mean to imply that you were sleeping with him to get ahead. You just surprised me, that's all. Can't say that I'm not disappointed, but I should hear you out first. It was not bothering to listen or talk to you that made me do something so stupid in the first place. I should've been honest instead of spreading the rumor."

"I'm touched, Nick. Really I am," you say, your voice weakening because you think you might cry. To think you felt you had to keep you and Grissom a secret! Did you really think that your friendships were so fractured that you felt you couldn't trust them? You squeeze his hand and promise, "We can talk about it, if you want."

---------------------------

It's just coffee today. You can't stomach much else, you know this. So, just coffee. You can only handle coffee.

Breakfast has been rather enjoyable, with more talks of rock climbing and possible places in which to complete this adventure. You can't believe that this rock climbing thing might turn into an actual date. Even with all the pleasurable conversation, you can tell she's just aching to ask you about Nick's little rumor. You swig down the rest of your hot beverage and smack your lips.

"I think it's fairly obvious that we're not dating," you shrug casually, adding a smile to emphasize your lightheartedness. She chokes a little on her bacon and eggs and glances up at you with fearful eyes. You laugh, "I did notice, you know. You had been staring me down all shift."

Catherine laughs, confirming your suspicions. She forms a wry smile, "What can I say? Stealth is not one of my strong suits."

"So, you've heard the same things I've heard, then?" you ask. It's taking a lot of control to remain as neutral as possible. You don't want to make her uncomfortable by insinuating that maybe Nick was right about you. You want to make sure you won't lose her completely by scaring her off.

"Before you got in, Hodges bumped into me," she says, her grin broadening with each word. "He wanted to congratulate me. When he saw my puzzled face, he called me 'quite the jokester' and said that maybe my easy going demeanor was what finally reeled you in."

"You? Easy going?" you joke lightly.

"A comedienne now?" she says, mockingly glaring at you.

"I'm thinking of changing careers, yeah," you laugh back.

"_Anyway_, I wasn't sure how to approach you about it," Catherine continues, waving a hand around trying to explain her bewilderment. "I wasn't sure if maybe you let something slip that was misinterpreted or if Hodges was just pulling my leg."

"No, it wasn't me," you tell her. You cross your arms as you lean back in your seat, "It was Nick. He told Greg, who probably told Warrick, then Hodges overheard or heard it from someone else. I don't even know how it was spread around, I just know it started with Nick."

"Nick?" she repeats, her shock evident. "Why did he. . .?"

"He noticed that we were talking and that. . .you weren't talking to him," you explain gently. "He thinks you hate him, so I guess he decided that if he couldn't have you. . ."

"Then no one could," she finishes with a trite laugh. She sips her orange juice and jokes, "I'll give him points for creativity, that's for sure."

You can see her anger bubbling below the surface and you want to quell that anger, for Nick's sake. You meet her eyes and say softly, "He misses you, Cath. Don't be too hard on him." You chuckle before adding, "I already tore him a new one. He just wants his friend back."

"I know," she sighs. "I'm adjusting, that's all. I find myself questioning everything lately, including my friendships. I don't mean to ignore him, I just have a lot on my mind."

"Well, he would be much better off if you told him that," you advise, to which she nods her agreement.

You both return to your plates. Well, she has food. You're still trying to keep down that coffee.

So, she's questioning her friendships? Does that include the friendship she has with you? Maybe. You still don't know everything about the Warrick situation either, so maybe she's referring to him. Well, what about Grissom? It never occurred to you that she might not approve of what he's done. Or rather, what the both of you have kept secret for far too long. You feel even more ill now. You never once considered that Catherine may have lost some respect for both you and Grissom.

That's great, isn't it? Not only does she have issues to sort out with Nick and apparently Warrick, you've managed to bring into question the integrity of her relationship with both you and Grissom. You have single handedly screwed up the last of her friendships. Good job, Sidle. Just great.

You wave down your waitress and ask for another coffee. You thought that maybe today would've been your opportunity to confess your feelings. Now, you're not so sure. Your stomach is churning again and the thought of drinking more coffee is suddenly very unappealing, but you can't sit here any longer not doing anything.

"Sara?"

"Yeah?" you look up at her. She's still smiling, thank goodness.

"How did you hear about it?" she asks inquisitively.

"The rumor?" you ask.

"Yeah. Who told you?" she pushes.

"Uh, well, I heard it from Greg," you answer. She obviously wants some elaboration, so you shrug, "He found me at a bar and he asked me about it. Asked me what was going on between us."

Her smile is softening and her eyes are watching with great wonder and intrigue. "What did you say?"

"I told him nothing was going on. He didn't believe me and he pestered me," you recall. You swallow hard as you catch her eyes and hold them. You can't pull away and you see something there that maybe had always been there, you just didn't bother to look for it before. You continue, "He kept asking if I was attracted to you."

She squints at you now, something merry and bright flickering through her lashes, "Are you attracted to me?"

"Uh. . .," you say, your mouth sort of falling open. Well, that question was rather bold of her, you think. Is that a sign? Or are you being too hopeful? You can't read her tone of voice either, the question not coming out particularly lustful or baiting. It's just a question and without any other verbal cues, you're not sure how to answer without offending her. Your phone rings, startling both of you. Saved by the ring tone! You hold up one finger and say, "Sorry. . I have to take this. . ."

When you flip open the phone and say hello, you're greeted with, "I never thought of myself as the jealous type."

"Grissom?" you say, somewhat confused. You see Catherine's expression grow concerned as well, so you turn in your seat away from her prying eyes and repeat, "Gris? Is that you?"

"It's me, Sara," he says, almost pushing your name through his lips. He sounds frustrated. He sounds tired. "You know, I'm almost responsible for. . .She didn't really need the help, but I saw potential in her all those years ago. I guess I don't blame you for seeing the same thing."

Your heart is beating faster than you would like it to. Grissom is talking about her. He has to be talking about her. You had once asked him how he and Catherine met. He said she was a green, eager mother trying to turn her life around for her little girl. From that first day, he had saw potential in her. The same thing you saw your first day in Vegas. The reason you really stayed in Vegas.

You chance a glance at Catherine and she catches your panicked look. You turn away from her again. This is not happening. . .not now.

You couldn't decide between two people you care for deeply and now it seems your reluctance to be decisive is deciding for you.

"Sara?"

"I'm here," you whisper. You don't know why you're whispering. Maybe you don't want Catherine to hear you, so you continue to speak as quietly as possible. "What did you hear, Gris?"

"After that first night, Sara, I was scared," he says, ignoring your question. There's a warmth in his voice you don't think you've ever heard before. "All that time ago, when I told you I didn't know what to do about 'this', I meant it. Even now, I realize I had no plan or course of action concerning us. I knew it shouldn't have gone beyond that first night, but it was nice to have someone for a change."

"Yeah, it was nice to have someone," you say, almost smiling. Maybe you thought you'd be crying, but your eyes aren't even beginning to sting. His words sound so nostalgic and loving, you can't help but feel fondness for him and what you two have. Or maybe, what you two had.

"Can we talk?" he pleads.

"Of course," you say immediately. "I'm coming over right now."

You end the call and give Catherine an apologetic stare. She nods her understanding and asks gently, "Trouble in paradise?"

"Yeah," you answer, finally feeling the prickle of tears behind your eyes. The thought of you and Grissom ending hurts. It _really_ hurts. Why does it hurt so much? You fish in your pockets for money to pay your half of the bill. A surge of confidence soars through you as you rise from your seat. You were here to be honest with her. You have to be honest with yourself. You place a hand on Catherine's shoulder and offer up a woeful grin, "I am attracted to you, Catherine."

You go to leave, but she grabs your arm with an unexpected strength to keep you right where you are. Now fear surges through your veins as you turn back to face her. She is getting up from her seat, her face devoid of any emotion. That scares you. A blank expression is not really the kind of reaction you were expecting to your confession. Maybe you should've professed your attraction to her later. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything at all.

Fear dissipates when a small blush warms her cheeks. She's not angry. No, not at all. She's flattered! Probably a bit shocked, but flattered nonetheless.

"It was me, wasn't it?" she asks. "I was the other guy?"

"Yeah, it was you," you confirm.

She reaches up to tuck lose strands of hair behind your ear, the gesture so careful and pacifying, the whole world suddenly falls away from you. Her hand lingers alongside your cheek and you lean into her warm caress, placing your hand over hers to keep it there. Her touch feels so good, you don't want her to let go.

You hear her sigh, an almost inaudible breath filled with longing and dashed hopes all rolled into one. She chides you lightly, "You sure know how to paint yourself into a corner, don't you, Sidle?"

You laugh a little. Yeah, you do.

"Sure doesn't make it easy for the rest of us," Catherine adds sadly, before pulling her hand away and ending the savored contact.

You furrow your brow thoughtfully this time and mumble, "Does that mean you. ..?"

"Go to Grissom, Sara," she says, pushing you toward the exit gently. "You've got a mess to fix. We can talk later."

You nod, doing as you are told without question. She is right, after all. You've certainly got a mess to fix.

to be continued. . .


	5. You can't help but laugh

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: See Part One; some character history in this chapter is probably fanon. I say probably because I haven't been able to confirm it yet. It's nothing too radical to upset any canon based storylines. You may not even notice it. A huge thank you for the reviews and comments. I wasn't sure what the reactions to this piece would be, so I'm happy they were overwhelming supportive. stareagle, your review was pretty much right on the money. Thank you.

**The Irony of It All**

by e-dog

**Part Five: You can't help but laugh. **

The locker room is empty. Eerie quiet engulfs you, leaving you alone with your thoughts. "Alone" being the operative word there. You are alone. With your thoughts. You'd rather be stuffed into a blender filled with photographic fixer solution and rusty nails. Now _that_ would be heaven compared to the dark catacombs of your mind. Unfortunately, all you have left is your mind and your thoughts. The last 24 hours replaying in your head.

Go to Grissom, she said. You have a mess to fix, she said. She also pointed out your innate ability to put yourself into very difficult situations, limiting your choices and mobility. Still, nothing she said outweighed the moment she touched you. Skin melting into skin as she caressed your cheek with baby soft hands. She was right. You didn't make things easy for anyone.

Grissom has decided he needs more than a break from you. He needs to get _away_ from you. He didn't say it so harshly, of course, but it was finally clear to him that your heart was not completely his. He believed you when you said you loved him. He said he never doubted that at all. He knew that you loved him. What he told you was, "You just need time to figure out what you want, dear. I think we both need time for that."

He's been requested to take a sabbatical, his great entomology knowledge ready to be passed down to avid youths of the college variety. You can't help but laugh. When you had met Grissom all those years, he was on loan to your school. A small stint at your local college. You were first in line to sign up for his class and the last student to leave each day. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now he's up and off to start that cycle all over again. You can't help but wonder who the "new girl" will be. Yes, you know this cynical line of thinking is unhealthy, but that's what you were back then. The lonely, smart, needy student he happily took under his wing and nurtured into a genius. Well, maybe not a genius, but his teachings brought you pretty damn close. You have no doubt he could do it again.

Okay, stop it. Grissom is not that cruel. You're just bitter.

Still, you can't help but laugh. How did you sucker yourself into believing hero worship was love? How did you convince him of the same thing?

Well, it was love. At some point, you fell in love with him. You fell in love and it was good. Good for a while, at least. Maybe it wasn't meant-to-be love or anything like that, but you were in love with him and he with you. Now you just love him and that's all. You love him the way you should have from the very beginning. It's just love.

Needless to say, you messed up. You _really_ messed up. On top of that, you still don't know what you want.

You sit on the hard, cold bench and twiddle your thumbs and wonder why you haven't gone home yet. Shift is over. It's been over for a while and you should go home, but maybe you know what's at home waiting for you. Some wine for drinking. Shaded windows to block out all signs of life. Maybe you would like that, but maybe that's not what you need. What you need is a friend.

"You look like you could use a drink," he says, his voice a bit dank, even for him. You wonder if everything is alright at home with Tina.

You turn to Warrick, watching him dig in his locker for his belongings. He glances at you, his eyes heavy but his lips flirt on the edge of smiling and you accept his invitation. "Yeah, maybe just one drink."

-----------------------

You surprise yourself sometimes. The beer you have ordered is still full. Not a drop has touched your lips, but oh, have your lips done some talking! Who knew that drunken monologues could be spoken without the aid of alcohol?

"I got lost somewhere along the way. I mean, I know what you've probably heard around the lab. It's not true. In fact, after the way I've acted, I can't imagine she would even want to keep up this little bit of a friendship we have. She's probably lost all respect for me.

It's just. . .I was lonely, Warrick. I had been for some time and when he came to me, I couldn't say no. I tell myself that I let him in that night because I was worried. I tell myself that I was trying to help him, but really, I think I was trying to help _me. _I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to feel _wanted_. I kept thinking about my wants and I never really thought about his.

With her, though, it was different. Sure, I wanted to be around her, but my concern for her well-being trumped all of my other desires. I won't lie. My concern did fuel my need for her, but she always came first. When it was just the two of us, she always came first. . ."

You don't really know what you said next, maybe Warrick doesn't know either, but he listens to you. He listens to you and you can't help but feel he understands you. In some strange way, he truly understands you.

"I always figured you had a thing for him," Warrick muses, sipping his beer gingerly. "Just never thought you'd act on it."

You smile, "He had pretty much shut me down and I had accepted it. Trust me, we didn't think so either."

You take the first sip of beer and it tastes bittersweet. It tastes like loss. You can't drink anymore.

"You know, I think we all love her. We love her in our own way," Warrick half smiles, putting his drink down. "I think Greg likes her for, well, her beauty. She's a beautiful woman, inside and out. She mothers him, I think. Nick, well, they've always been close. From the beginning. As for me, let's just say there was this flicker, this chance. I really wanted to but. . .the man who would've taken her home and ravished her all night long, he didn't exist anymore. I had grown up a little since my wild days. Not to mention, she was my immediate supervisor at the time."

You both laugh, considering you didn't seem to mind the rules surrounding subordinates and their superiors when you kissed Grissom. This also sheds a little light on the Warrick situation. At one point, they both thought they had something...then came the mysterious wedding. The fantasy was lost. Maybe Warrick understands you because he looked a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he wants to keep you from making the same mistake.

You sigh heavily, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Does anyone really know?" he counters thoughtfully, tipping up his glass to finish off the last drops. He sets it down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He waves his hand for another. His eyes seem to grow distant as he repeats, "No one really ever knows, Sara."

You chuckle nervously and confess, "I'm scared."

He agrees, "She is a scary woman."

"I'm scared I'll mess this up. I've already messed this up."

"The worst she can do is say no," he shrugs. "After that, then you know."

You nod, before joking lightly, "Hey, when did you become Dr. Phil?"

"When I got married," he smiles back, then adds, "And, hey, I just call 'em like I see 'em."

You sort of groan at the thought of talking with Catherine again. You don't know how to face her now that you are officially single and Grissom free. You had grown accustomed to the fact that she didn't know about you. She's going to treat you differently now, you know this.

However, talking with Catherine is really not the worst of it. You put your head in your hands and mumble, "What really sucks is that everyone at the lab now knows a little bit of something about my love life."

Warrick laughs, "Hey, we all know a little bit of something about everyone, or at least we think we know. All depends which one of us accidently says the wrong thing. Then, all hell breaks lose."

You nod, knowing Nick is a prime example of that fact. Something still nags you though. You look up and state, "You're not mad at me."

"Should I be?" Warrick asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

You shrug, "I've been getting. . .mixed reactions to the whole Grissom thing. Cath didn't seem too surprised. Nick tried to lecture me and you. . .you don't seem to care either."

Warrick purses his lips together, playing with the label on his drink. Finally, he holds up his hand and shows off his wedding band. "Did I ever tell you how this happened?"

You smile, "Like me, you kept most of those details to yourself, Warrick. I don't think anyone at the lab really knows how it happened."

"She knows," Warrick says resignedly. You know which 'she' he is addressing. "She wasn't too happy about it, actually. Not at first. I told her that what happened to Nick made me think. Life's too short, Sara."

You think about what he's just said, but still look up confused.

He half laughs, explaining, "Tina and I had been dating a few months. Barely enough time to get to know one another. The marriage happened in one of those blurry, drunken love moments, you know? This is longest relationship I've ever had and you know what? I love her. I guess what I'm saying is. . .life really is_ too_ short. You can't spend all your time playing by the rules. You gotta take what you want before you can't have it anymore."

You seem to understand now why Warrick doesn't care about your relationship with Grissom. He took a chance with Tina fearful that a happily-ever-after marriage would never happen for him. He took a chance on Tina while burning other relationships in the process. You aren't the only one who has shut others out to be with your significant other. You and Warrick have more in common than you thought.

You smile sardonically, tipping your glass toward his, "Live for the day. To hell with the consequences."

"Exactly," he smiles back, clinking his glass to yours. You both take long swigs of the amber liquid. He puts his drink down and talks with a soft, far off voice. It's as if this voice is only meant for you. "I made a decision. I didn't think about the future. I didn't think about what others would think of me. I just did it. I think I burned some bridges along the way, but I can't say I regret that. You did that with Grissom."

You nod, "Yeah, I did."

"So, what's different with Catherine?" he poses.

You pause. What is different with Catherine? You finish off your drink, then smile, "Thanks, Warrick. I needed this."

"That's what friends are for," he smiles back.

You go to stand up, then fall back down into your seat. You feel waves of your conversation with Nick wash over you. Friends. Loyalty. Communication. Warrick is looking at you curiously, as you turn back to him and say, "We are friends, Warrick. I don't want to hear stuff about you through the grapevine. The next time you decide to go get married, you can tell me. We don't have to keep secrets from each other."

"Sara," he sighs.

"I mean it, Warrick," you smile softly. You grab his hand, "Nick and Greg didn't know me because I wouldn't let them know me. We need to start talking again. Really talking, all of us."

He sees your shy smile and he chuckles, but his tightening grip on your hand tells you he's grateful for the invitation. He misses all of you too. He bites his lower lip, before countering, "Okay. Okay, I can do that if you can. But the next time you make it happen with one our co-workers, you can tell me." Then he adds cheekily, "Which I have a good feeling is going to happen again very soon."

You blush involuntarily which makes him laugh again. Before you can say anything, he waves at you to get moving, "Go get her, girl."

-----------------------

So you have found yourself, once again, outside Catherine's home. The engine is running. You've been obsessively checking the time every thirty seconds. Drinks with Warrick ran longer than expected. Catherine could very well be asleep by now, resting up for the next shift. This may not be the best time to. . .to what, exactly? Say I love you? Officially announce your break-up with Grissom?

No, probably not the best time.

Of course, that begs the question, when is the best time? Considering how your other relationships have somewhat self destructed, now or never should be the ultimate attitude, right? Look at recent events.

Greg had to snoop around the lab to get any dirt on you because you had stopped talking to him.

Nick spread a rumor about you because you had neglected to keep an eye on him. You neglected to check up on him.

Today was the first time you and Warrick had exchanged more than two sentences that didn't involve forensics!

Oh, and then there's Catherine. The only reason you have any kind of relationship with her is because you finally initiated one. Sure, it was driven by undeniable feelings consisting of a mixture of love and concern, but you had finally woken up and seen the world outside of you and Grissom.

You woke up. You exit your vehicle because now is the best time. Yes, now is the best time for so many reasons.

It took her phone call. It took her call for help to pull you out of the haze and you have to thank her for that. You have to say thanks because you suddenly remembered there were others in your life that you cared about. You remembered that others cared about you and then you couldn't stop remembering. You had to take care of her. You had to be her friend. You had to help her through it all because it was the only way to stay awake.

Awake. Is she even awake? Will she hear the doorbell as you stand here waiting? No answer. Maybe she isn't even here. You turn on your heel and go to walk away, but you stop when you hear the latch on the door give way. You turn back just in time to see her door swing open and there she is. You smirk thinking you could get used to this sight, a sleepy Catherine wrapped up in a robe, hair slightly mused. Unfortunately, she's not as amused as you are.

"Christ, Sara, do you know what time it is?" she mutters, shielding her eyes from the midday sun.

You check your watch and relay, "It's nearly noon. Lunch time for all those normal folks who have daytime jobs."

"Yeah, well, we don't have daytime jobs." she reminds you coldly. She's definitely a grouch first waking up, isn't she?

"I know, I know, I just had to see you," you say, stepping forward. You add solemnly, "It couldn't wait."

Her expression unchanged, she opens the door wider to let you in. She's mumbling to herself as she ushers you toward the couch, then she disappears upstairs to those unknown chambers above you.

You sit on the couch, sinking into the cushions and that's when you notice. The house is clean. No. It's spotless. The complete opposite of how it was the last time you were here. The wood furniture shines and the brass fixtures sparkle. You suspect a maid service has been through here, the slight stench of heavy duty cleaners lingering in the air, but does that matter? The house is clean and that means Catherine is doing more than just moping around wallowing in self pity.

You snuggle between the pillows and her scent is all over everything because naturally this all belongs to her. You shut your eyes, a pleasant weariness settling over you. You really do like it here.

You hear a creak and your eyes snap open and she's on the stairs, leaning on the rail. She's in sweats and a tank top and she's decidedly more awake as she half grins at you. You think she might have teased her hair a bit, because it doesn't look like bed head anymore, but it's not perfect yet either. She scolds lightly, "You wake me up so you can crash on my couch?"

You would like to move and show how energized you still are, but alas, your tired limbs like the comfy surroundings and refuse to budge. You suppress a yawn and say, "It's a nice couch."

She gracefully finishes her descent, snags a blanket off a rocking chair along the way as she walks over to you. She goes to cover you up and you say in quiet protest, "No...I'm not tired, Cath. I want to talk to you."

Your yawn betrays you and she can only glance at you sidelong, her brows rising ever so slightly in skepticism. She points at your feet and orders, "Shoes off."

"But. . .," you object.

"Shoes. Off," she repeats, her tone sending chills down your spine. So, this must be what Lindsey feels like when she's scolded. You immediately remove your boots, praying no mysterious odors are escaping the dark depths of your footwear. She kicks at your feet with a socked foot of her own, indicating she wants you to lay out on the couch. So you do and then she covers you with the blanket.

"Get some rest, Sara. I know you don't get enough sleep."

How is it she knows so much about you? You tug at the blanket some, bringing it up to your chin before calling out sleepily, "Catherine?"

"Hmm?" she replies, turning back to you. She kneels down next to the couch to look you better in the eyes.

"Thanks," you half smile.

"Oh, you can crash here anytime, Sara," she shrugs.

"No, I mean, thank you," you repeat. "For. . .for putting up with me."

She just smiles and nods, "Yeah, you should thank me for that."

You laugh lightly, then close your eyes because sleep is now inevitable. You feel her fingers run through your hair once, before she pulls away from the couch completely and softly walks away. Before you know it, you're fast asleep.

------------------------

She's in the kitchen when you wake.

You sleepily shuffle toward her and the fresh scent of coffee. She's holding a full mug when you reach her and you smile into the cup as you take the first sip. Perfect. The aroma immediately energizes you and you open your eyes completely. She's left your sight, taking a seat at the table with her own cup o' joe and a newspaper. Reluctantly, you join her, a coldness falling over the whole room. You feel nothing good can come of this.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Her question is deadpan, once again giving you no verbal clues to her emotional state.

"Sure, I guess," you answer quietly. This already feels like an interrogation. Not good.

"Is he okay?"

Her question makes you wonder about the consequences of answering truthfully. Grissom and Cath were good friends before you showed up and they still are. Telling her how Grissom is really doing could result in a verbal or physical assault. Something you'd like to avoid. Still, you can't very well lie to her about any of it. You're finished with holding secrets. You purse your lips, then answer, "He's dealing. I hurt him, but he's dealing."

Her first flickers of emotion shine in her eyes when she asks, "Has he hurt you?"

You nearly perform a double take, "Hurt me?"

"Yes, has he ever hurt you? It's a simple question, Sara," she pushes.

"Uh, no, not that I . . .," you stumble over your words, her hard stare crumbling your heart. You sigh heavily, "No, Cath. He didn't hurt me. He may have ignored me at times, but he never intentionally hurt me."

Catherine nods at you, analyzing your answer in her head. She sips some coffee before inquiring, "You do understand why I ask you this, right?"

You'd like to say, yes. Unfortunately, you haven't a clue, so you shake your head no.

"Remember how I told you that I was questioning the relationships in my life?" she reminds you. You nod this time. She continues, "That included you, Sara."

"What was there to question?" you say, leaning forward in your seat. "I've always been willing to help you."

"Hey, I know that now," she says, a hint of a smile on her lips. Her expression grows solemn again when she explains, "When Sam died, I was lost. I just didn't know where to go or what to do. Then you showed up. I don't know how or why you were there, but you were there. I'm not sure what I would've done with myself if you hadn't. With everything that had happened, it was you who kept me afloat."

You don't know if she's thanking you or just pointing out a coincidence. You fiddle with the handle on your mug and say softly, "I wanted to help you."

"Why?" she asks sharply. "Why you? Why did you suddenly want to help me? Was it pity? Sympathy?"

"No," you shake your head.

"Then why, Sara?" she asks softly this time. Her voice is gentler now, "I could understand your wanting to drive me home that night. The night Sam died, I'm not sure allowing myself behind the wheel of any vehicle would've been smart. What I didn't understand was the sudden interest in me after that. Getting breakfast after shift, talking to me about your secret affair with Gil. Making me talk about the attack. All of that just seemed so out of character. . .it seemed so . . .."

"I was afraid," you interrupt her. "I was afraid you wouldn't want my help anymore. I was afraid you wouldn't want _any_ help whatsoever. I didn't want to see you self-destruct. Not that I thought you were weak, but I could see you weren't handling it well. I did what I thought I had to."

"You still haven't told me why," she points out coyly. You go to protest, but she holds up a hand, "No, I believe you when you say you were afraid. It's just, I know that's not the whole truth."

"What do you want from me?" you ask, already emotionally spent for today. "What more can I say? That I did it out of love? Because I . . ."

You stop, realizing what words left your mouth and your jaw tenses. Catherine's mouth is slowly turning up into a knowing smile. She doesn't seem shocked by your omission. In fact, it's pretty damn obvious that was the answer she was expecting. You're not sure what to make of that. How could she have known you loved her? Were you that obvious?

"You said you were attracted to me, Sara. You told me I was 'the other guy'," Catherine informs you, her tone halfway between teasing and sympathetic. "From there, I just put the pieces together."

"Oh," you say, feeling silly. You don't really remember much of that conversation you shared with her yesterday. You remember the shock of Grissom's call. You remember the way you felt when she caressed your cheek. You hope you aren't blushing. You probably are, but you can at least hope you aren't. You laugh uncomfortably, "I guess there's not much more for me to confess."

"No," Catherine agrees, then begins to look a bit curious herself. Her eyes seem to shine with an unspoken hope as she asks quietly, "So, you love me?"

You nod, "Yeah, I do."

"While you still love Grissom?" she says, tilting her head to the side inquisitively. You don't know what to say because she's sort of right. She gives you another knowing smile, "Sara, while you are pathetically cute, I can't do this."

"You can't do this. . .," you repeat somewhat confounded. She was actually considering a 'this'? Then you ask dumbly, "Did you just call me cute?"

She's laughs, shaking her head at you. "Pathetically cute. You forgot the pathetic part."

"Right, pathetic," you amend, a sorrowfulness entering your heart now that you realize she will never be yours. She doesn't want to be yours. Now that you're here, you have to try. Now that all secrets are exposed, you can't give up that easily. "Cath, I need you."

She shakes her head again. "No, Sara. You need someone to lick your wounds and I won't be that temporary adhesive that holds you together until Gil decides he wants you back. I'm done with flings and one night stands. I need assurance."

She's got it all wrong, you want to say, but you don't have to say anything at all. Her eyes betray her. She wants what you want, you know it. She's just afraid you'll hurt her and you don't blame her for her cautiousness. Hell, you wouldn't want you right now, considering. It's just you know you'll go crazy thinking about her. You know she wants you and Grissom isn't here to cloud your mind. You'll go crazy thinking about her, knowing she wants you and that she won't let you have her. You'll go crazy. . .

"Sara, " she calls you. You look at her again. "I can't thank you enough for your friendship over the last few weeks. It's just, I can't give you more than that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Cath. I get it. It's okay," you say. It's the truth. It is okay. This whole arrangement is okay, as long as she is still in your life somehow. However, _you_ are not okay. Your soul is not okay. You rub the back of your neck and confess, "It just hurts more than I thought it would."

"You loved him. Love hurts, darling," she says softly. Then she laughs sardonically at some inside joke you don't understand as she says, "Trust me. Love hurts."

You think she might be referring to you. You don't know why. Call it a selfish thought, but you can feel the waves of disappointment being directed at you. Love hurts. It hurts when people like you can't figure out where your heart belongs. Love hurts when you don't understand the meaning of the word.

"It wasn't the right kind of love," you frown.

She repeats, "You still loved him."

You look at her, locking onto her eyes and your soul begins to heal, slowly. You know, now, it'll take time to fix whatever you had with Grissom. It'll take time for her to trust her whole heart to you. It'll take time for you to rebuild all of your relationships again and time is suddenly your new best friend.

Suddenly, you feel that everything will be okay. If you try hard enough to keep the relationships you have, it will work out. Of course, your friends must do the same. You think Nick and Warrick are willing. Greg has no intention of ever abandoning you. You're fairly confident that Grissom would never cut all ties with you either. So that just leaves Catherine.

You ask her, "Are we okay, Catherine?"

She tilts her head to the side again, a hand running lazily through her hair as she ponders your question. After two long excruciating seconds, she replies, "Yeah, I think we're okay."

Suddenly, you can breathe again.

The End


End file.
